When I first moved out of my parents' house after high school, on any given night I'd receive a phone call from them.
You'd think it would be them asking me how I was doing.
Telling me of how a single tear rolls down their face every time a glance into my bedroom was met with chilled emptiness.
That life was not the same without my constant wit, beauty, and charm in their day to day.
Then the reality of life in the form of my Dad's voice would come through the speaker,
"Hi Bonnie, we are trying to watch a movie, but now the sound isn't working on the tv."
Throw the addition of wi-fi, laptops, smart phones and iPods into the mix and I'd almost become an episode of "Outsourced." Only, funnier.
Little did I know, that my generation had been groomed for this. All those years of Super Mario, Windows 95, and blasting Celine Dion's "Let's Talk About Love" on my Discman had prepared me for these phone calls.
So, what is Baby Bean being prepared for?
Rocket scientist. Presidential candidate. Ikea "Blirgenblag" creator.
The sky is the limit.
I mean, he promptly opened Photo Booth and pressed "enter" to take those photos. All by his 7 month self.
And then he broke my left arrow key off and attempted to eat it.