21 months.

It’s rumored that some of my not-so-distant Italian ancestors had ties to the 1940′s Chicago mob scene.

Based on the mannerisms that my son Jack does, I could very easily see that to be true.

Thinking back on comments people tell me when they meet Jack in person or even just when they see his pictures, they people say he looks (and acts) either very serious or extremely happy. But not not much in-between; not much of an emotional transition.

It’s basically how Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci act in every movie I’ve seen them in: They never smile… until they do. And by that point, once they’ve reached their giddy stage… watch out!

Because by that point, the insanity has set in.

Yeah, that’s Jack.

He’s sort of a little mobster.

Besides “mine,” his favorite word right now is “UP!”

Jack has a deep, raspy voice. And when he says the word “up” he says it slowly and with that extra syllable at the end, like a native Italian speaker.

So I’ve got this mini-man now telling me “UHP-PEH!” (Like a baby boss!)

I have to admit, it’s almost intimidating.

We can be playing with his toys on the carpet in the living room and all of the sudden, he says to me: “UP!”

That means he’s ready to go outside or play in a different room or if nothing else, I have to hurry and find a new way to entertain him.

The thing is, I sort of have to do what he says. If he’s tired of an activity, even if it’s eating, and he says, “All done!” then I have to act on it.

It’s not like the kid is going to patiently wait for me to finish what I was doing first.

The more I think about it, I really am a henchman for a mobster; who happens to be only 21 months old.

I serve him. I feed him. I dress him. I drive him. I tuck him into bed. I do his shopping for him.

Even though I make him say please first, he’s still ultimately telling me what to do. (Like a baby boss!)

And I do it.

My son is the Todfather. But you didn’t hear that from me.