Genetics

I am fascinated by genetics. By the way traits are passed on throughout generations.

I study my children and try to see who's eyes and lips and mouth they have. But I also search out where they get their stubborness, or sense of humour or propensity for throwing fits.

For instance, if you can ignore Nora's crusty nose and the fact that I am showing you her teeth like she is a show dog, you will see that she has pointy vampire canines. Just like her mamma.



Nora and I have been blessed with 4 sharp, pointy teeth like that. No one else in the family has them. I want to file mine down, but Jeff likes the fact that they make me look like a vampire. I don't even want to go into why that is. Anyway.........

So my children all have these fantastic dimples like their father, and at least one child has my crazy vampire teeth. That seems easy to explain in terms of DNA and inherited traits.

But what if I told you that I have a child that seems to have inherited my DNA for getting himself into very nearly the exact same trouble I got into as a child?

I'm talking about Henry. Sweet, adorable, round, chubby faced Henry.

You know about his escape from Target. But did you know that when I was even younger then Henry, I walked right out my front door in Roslyn, Wa with key in hand, and I headed down the hill toward the post office. My parents frantically searched for me and were reunited with me because some nice old man found me and headed back with me in the direction I came from. Did I mention I was 15 months old?

Then there was the time when I was about 3 or 4, and I decided to pour an entire bottle of Mrs. Butterworths all over my sister's head.

Well....



Lets just say that the bottle was full until Henry got a hold of it. And as much as I would like to show you the picture of Nora with syrup running down her head, I can't. Because there isn't one. instead of taking her picture with syrup in her eyes and down her jammies, I whipped her upstairs fast as lightening so that I could get her syrup soaked little body into the tub. And then I put Henry in his room for a major time out with the tingling of a swat on his bottom.

Then after cleaning Nora up, I spent the next half an hour cleaning the rest of the contents of that bottle of syrup off my kitchen floor.

Now, if he is really intent on repeating my own behaviors as a young child, then I should prepare myself for him to write all over himself and his sister with my lipstick, and for him to try and shave with his daddy's razor. Or to sneak in the crawl space under the house to play, or to cover himself in dirt so that it looks like he was weeding the garden when in fact he was playing all day.

And yes, I really did all those things. Plus more, but I think I was too young to remember all of it, and my mom has her-memories-of-her-children-as-perfect-itis.

So if you need any advice on how to handle your own bundle of trouble, I can't help you. It seems in our family, it's genetic.