Our son was born on a balmy spring morning, and when we left the hospital the next day, it was snowing. The weather was a perfect manifestation of our obstetrician’s parenting advice earlier that week, to “expect the unexpected.” I never expected him to weigh nine pounds at birth. I never expected him to stab a chopstick through his left cheek, have a penchant for pirates, or spend 15-hours a week on pommels and parallel bars. I never expected him to sit in a stadium of Maple Leaf fans, wearing a Winnipeg Jets jersey, a city he has no connection to, but supports with the ardent devotion of a native. I never expected the emotional outpouring (his and mine) when he feels an injustice, or that he would tear through chicken legs like a street puppy. I never expected him to be so difficult, and so easy. I never expected eleven to come so fast, and to take so long. Beyond knowing that he had ten toes, and that I loved him, I didn’t expect anything at all.