Genetics are Funny

When we have children, we expect them to inherit certain things from us. One of my sons has my blue eyes, while the other 3 kids have eyes like their Daddy's. Other traits proudly passed on to our kids include cowlicks, crooked teeth in need of orthodontia, bad eyesight sprinkled in with a few allergies.

But then there have been some surprises: things we didn't think were traits that were necessarily genetic. For instance, I discovered that one of my kids gets stage fright after a performance. Just after a music performance, we found one of my sons sitting on the floor, breathing heavily, with his face flushed red. It seems strange, but I remember the same experience as a child, after I had performed at a piano recital. Maybe rather than calling it post-stage fright, I should refer to it as an intense adrenaline crash.

This morning I discovered something else that is apparently genetic: vandalism.

Just under our breakfast bar, I discovered that my daughter, Eva, had written her name on our *ahem* recently painted wall. At least she put a heart next to her name. And, as I can only imagine, she started feeling guilty about drawing on the wall with a red pen, so she quickly added a "P" in front of the name to disguise her identity.

I don't think I was a bad child, but I have a long, oft-repeated history of vandalizing my childhood home. I remember the green polar bear I scrawled on our dining room wall with a crayon, and the little flap of wallpaper I peeled back in our downstairs hallway where I drew, with a pretty purple felt-tip pen, the picture of a family driving in a car. (I pulled back that little flap of wallpaper often, to admire my handiwork, where I hoped it was obscured from the rest of the family). The time I attempted a mural, as it were, on my parents' master bedroom wall in permanent marker will go down in the history books. I was rather proud of my life-size portrait of monkeys hanging from a tree branch until I saw my poor Mom's reaction. I remember her scrubbing that masterpiece with some special cleaner from the store and a whole lot of elbow grease.

My Mom threw up her hands and said, "Carol! What am I going to do with you?"

I can only imagine I pouted out my bottom lip, suddenly feeling very remorseful, probably mostly for being caught. I reached back into my brain, and grasped at a recent Sunday School lesson.

"You could … forgive me," I said.

So now I'm getting what I deserved: a little vandal of my own. Either that, or I need to lock my doors against vandals named "Peva" who break into my house with red pens and have a thing for hearts.

Either way, it's time to get out some cleaner and a sponge.