What's in Your Pockets?

The other day, I was changing Matthew's diaper (he's my five-month-old), and while I was struggling to put his kicking feet back into the legs of his pants, I noticed that they had pockets. His tiny pants had tiny pockets. Two little infant-fist-sized pockets on either side of the hems that, for the sake of their size could hold very little. I only noticed because they were both sticking out like pockets do fresh from the laundry, and that's when it hit me: What would a baby need pockets for? To hold his car keys? Maybe a cell phone? He was wearing a white t-shirt and the black pocketed pants, and with the black strait hair (gratis from his pops) he looked very much like a wiseguy, so perhaps the pockets were for a money clip or change to call Morty, his four-month-old bookie. Either way, it was just one more thing to do while dressing him, tuck in the pockets.

He doesn't need pockets, that's for sure. For that matter, he doesn't even need pants, but I don't understand parents who dress infants with shoes. They look and feel more like uncomfortable canvas socks with painted-on eyelets, and it's not like they're ever going to touch the ground. At least, that is, until they fall off, and they always fall off. With the frequency of Matty's kicking (I could hook up his legs to a generator and power the house), he's bound to lose even the most steadfast sock after only a few minutes of air cycling. It's nice really. We lose socks in pairs, so we don't have a sad lot of lost mates languishing in the drawer until he grows out of them: He kicks one off every time I'm not looking and the dryer inevitably eats the other one.

As for the pockets, I didn't want them to go unused (I'm funny like that), so Matty earned his first penny that day, and he unknowingly carted around a small form of currency he doesn't understand in small pockets he doesn't even know exist.

Of course, I know I should be thankful for these moments and I should cherish the simplicity of his needs, as there will be a time in about 15 years when all he'll do is scuff around the house with his hands stuffed in his pockets, asking me for money.