How the Apples Fall from the Trees

One of the best things about having kids is the process of figuring out which parent each kid takes after and how. Outsiders like to comment on appearances: "Oh, your son looks just like your husband!" and "How fun to have a Mini-Me!"

But for me the most interesting thing about the genetic soup that makes our kids who they are is that it determines their personalities as well. I'm a big believer that "nature" trumps "nurture." Of course you can't torture and torment your kids and still expect them to be lovely and gentle, but it seems to me that kids are pretty much born with their personalities already hard-wired into their brains.

My kids are so dissimilar that the fact that both of them were spawned from the same genetic pool is pretty cool.

My kids look nothing alike. 

First, they look nothing alike: eye color, skin color, body type--all different. My son gets his looks mainly from my Irish husband's side of the family, while my daughter has a tiny bit more Armenian shining through (as evidenced by her incredibly long eyelashes).

But considering both kids were raised by the same two parents, it's crazy how different their personalities are and how they are such interesting combinations of me and my husband. My five-year-old son is sweet, sensitive, and enthusiastic about everything (in other words, he's nothing like me); yet he also loves learning and discovering, has a real thirst for knowledge, digs science, and is super-inquisitive (in other words, he's a nerd just like me).

Take Harry Potter, for example. I love that little wizard, and was ecstatic when my slightly premature attempts at indoctrinating my son in the ways and wonders of the wizarding world paid off. I've just finished reading him Sorcerer's Stone and he's begging for Chamber of Secrets already. Every second he's home, he's pleading with me to read him more, while the only way my husband can get my son to show any interest in the World Series is by pointing out that the guy up at bat's last name is pronounced "poo holes."

I love that my son and I have this thing we share just between us two. It makes me smile to hear him prattle on to my husband about how Ron got bitten by Hagrid's dragon and the cut got infected, because my husband has no clue what he's talking about. My son and I share a secret language--a language of muggles, Slytherin, Voldemort, bludger, quaffle, alohomora, Filch.... 

I am a huge fan of the fantasy, sci-fi, and horror genres, while my husband...eh. Let's put it this way: He doesn't LOVE Star Wars.

My son looks nothing like me, yet he shares most of my interests. And, thanks to my husband, he's much sweeter than I am. That's pretty awesome.

My three-year-old daughter, on the other hand...whew! Now I know how my mother felt when I was growing up and she would exasperatedly tell me to stop being so bossy. I never saw it as being bossy--I was just damned sure that my way was the best way so therefore everyone needed to listen and do what I said.

I see that trait in my daughter as well. Like me, she's headstrong and stubborn. She knows what she wants and can't be coerced into changing direction (unlike my son who is more reasonable and can usually eventually be persuaded to consider other options).

Unlike me, however, she loves everything girly: pink, sparkles, princesses, fairies, dressing-up, shoes, purses, Hello Kitty, Minnie Mouse, mermaids, kittens, and puppies. It's not uncommon for her to change outfits three times a day, and she will even allow me to tug and pull at her hair ("You hurtin' me, Mommy!") if the end result is "boo-si-vle" (beautiful) poofy pigtails just like Abby Cadabby's.

Maybe it's because I grew up with two brothers, but I don't remember ever being so obsessed with all that girly stuff. I'm pretty certain I still allowed my mother pick out my clothes when I was three, and I doubt I begged and pleaded with her to buy me sparkly pink shoes every time we went to Target Bradlees.

Though come to think of it, did they even make sparkly pink shoes for kids back in the 70's, or were red Mary Janes as exciting as it got?

Drowning in the Past

I've been spending too much time in the past lately. Facebook can do that to a person. Daily cyber-stalking-spying on your high school crush (Is he gross now, or pretty cute for an old guy?) or the mean girl who made your middle-school years a living hell (Please, PLEASE let her be fat now.) can take one's focus away from the here and now (Crap, my kid's bus will be here any second!). Facebook makes it really easy to lose yourself in the minutia of someone-you-haven't-seen-in-25-years-and-never-really-liked-to-begin-with's life.

But even before Facebook (the horrors!), my brain spent too much time dwelling on the past. I'm one of those people who like to pore through old photo albums--other people's as well as my own. Over and over again. I'm strange like that. I've always dwelled on the past, even when I was too young to have a past of my own. Then I would just obsess over previous eras and the people who glamorized them (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Charles Manson, etc.).

Would 15-year-old me
say I made the best
choices in life so far?

But Facebook makes it much easier to regress.

I'm not sure why I do this. My life these days is pretty ideal, if I do say so myself. It's just as I'd hoped and imagined it would be...well, pretty much. No one gets everything they've ever wanted in life. I'm a little less rich than I'd hoped. But I have a lovely husband who makes me laugh, two super-adorable, smart, healthy kids, and a pretty house in a nice neighborhood. The American dream, baby.

I'm happier now than when I was a teenager or young adult, so why do I find myself reliving the past so often? Am I trying to reassure myself that I chose the correct path? Am I testing the waters? Dipping my toes in Lake What-Could-Have-Been in the hopes of finding the water horribly cold and brackish? That sounds about right.

I just hope I don't fall in and drown.

A Topsy-Turvy Day

Today, Oakland Beach in Rye, NY

Today was a good one...but yet throughout the whole day things seemed off.

Because the forecast was for unseasonably warm weather, we decided to go to the beach--an unexpected, fantastic, bonus beach day.

The strangeness began on our drive to Rye, which is a town on the Long Island Sound with a few decent beaches. There we were, speeding down the highway--swim suits on, towels, floaties, and snacks all packed up--and lo and behold, the trees were starting to change color. It felt so odd to be admiring the yellow, orange, and red leaves while on our way to the beach with the car's air-conditioning humming.

Then once we arrived at the beach, there was the weirdness with the sun--the light just seemed wrong. At around 3 p.m., we were standing at the water's edge while Little Miss frolicked in the surf and Little Man tried to catch minnows. The sun was low--it seemed almost to be starting to go down--which made it feel much later than it actually was. Because normally when you are at the beach and the sunlight begins slanting that way, it's dinnertime.

Then it was time to go home. As we approached our neighborhood--sand between our toes and dried salt making our legs itch--the halloween decorations adorning the houses were downright jarring. Pumpkins, ghosts, and witches just don't go with flip-flops and shorts.

But, hey, I'm not complaining--I'll take it. Because before long, it'll be colder than a witch's tit, and our bonus beach day will just be a pleasant memory that we return to while freezing our butts off.

My Daughter, the Diva

Fancy shoes, tights over the
swimsuit, Halloween hair tie

My three-year-old daughter thinks it's perfectly okay to go outside wearing a swimsuit with tights pulled up over it, plus fancy, white, flower girl shoes. I insist on a jacket because, well, it's October and 55 degrees out there.

Getting my daughter dressed every morning is a tiring negotiation. Her go-to look is psychotic fairy princess, so it's my job to tone it down as much as possible. No parent should ever fight with their child over the clothes they want to wear (unless said child is a 15-year-old female decked out in a micro-mini and belly shirt), but there's no way I'm standing back without at least attempting to coordinate her outfit. But often my pleadings suggestions fall on deaf ears, and my sweet pea leaves the house looking like a hot mess.

Minnie Mouse

Some days I can convince her that a sundress isn't the best choice for a chilly winter morning, but other times, I just have to insist on tights underneath, and hope her winter coat is thick enough to counteract the spaghetti straps and bare arms.

This morning she decided on a Halloween theme: black pumpkin shirt, jack-o-lantern hair tie, turquoise leggings with gold polka dots, and black socks to match. The fact that the socks had snowmen all over them did not deter her. After all, they were black and therefore matched.

I do realize this is normal behavior, but after being spoiled by my first-born--my son happily wears whatever I lay out for him--my diva-esque daughter is a bit of a shock.

Bathing beauty/princess

At least it's never boring. On a daily basis, I never know if I'm going to be hanging out with Snow White, Minnie Mouse, a prima ballerina, beach beauty, fairy, some wacky combination thereof, or some brand new character I've never met before. Every once in a while, I even get to hang out with a regular, three-year-old kid.

Those are the most surprising days of all.