Yesterday, incidentally, he was asked about his year-long stewardship of the Claret Jug, a topic of media interest ever since Padraig Harrington's son sized up the venerable vessel and asked if he could put ladybirds in it.
So he would probably know his sons' shoe sizes if only I would let him buy them shoes once in a while.
Meyer's father, whose appetites and instincts are much stronger than his son's, quickly sizes up the situation.
Let us save you some trouble, son: what size suit you is?
And, best of all, my husband and I have had the pleasure of feeding our son toddler-size portions of chicken paprikash, Tuscan white bean and tuna salad, and aloo gobi (a cauliflower dish), prepared by a trusted community of friends and neighbors.
Sometimes I stood in the basement, my hands pulling warm clothes from the dryer, and paused to marvel at how simple and satisfying this task was: the soft pink shirt, the twisted fairy underwear, my son's size large T-shirt wrapped around his little sister's Hanna Andersson striped pajamas.
During this cold and feverish winter, it had seemed that I was nursing around the clock, a clock that spun at deranging speeds, doubling my son's size in three months, yet sometimes slowing nearly to a standstill, until I could hear each blue stalactite dripping inside the cave of the present moment: 5 02 A.M., 5 03 A.M. I felt possessed by a wild joy.
It was in those moments —the ones where I recognized my son's size and maturity — that I realized how much a school year had changed my boy.
So if she has only a few eggs to lay, it makes sense for her to lay almost all sons; as brood sizes grow larger, it makes sense to gradually increase the proportion of daughters in the mix.
The news was not good, he declared, as his barefoot son flipped dinner-mat sized pieces of bread onto the floor.
