a lesson in mendelian genetics

One of the first things strangers (or anyone for that matter) notice about Malcolm are his eyes. If I received some sort of monetary donation for each time I've heard about how beautiful, or stunning, or blue his eyes are (although I, personally, think they look more gray than blue), I would have a nice little stash set aside for the kid's eventual college education.


Long before I became pregnant, I always knew that blue eyes were a possibility ... My husband has blue eyes and, although I'm brown-eyed myself, there are blue eyes in my extended family. I never really thought, one way or another, of what color eyes I'd prefer on my future child ... I've always liked my brown eyes regardless of how "plain" or "ordinary" they might be. Eye color was a minor detail as far as I was concerned.

All I really hoped for was a kid that bore some resemblance to me ... Some small, easily distinguishable resemblance.

You see, I have lived most of my life being told that I look nothing like my parents or siblings. There were always certain moments or photographs where something about me stood out as being similar, but I have never been a "dead ringer" in any sense of the phrase.

Maybe I was switched at birth?

So, with Malcolm, I hoped for that connection. He is quite obviously my child (I did carry him for forty weeks and birth him into the world), but having him look like me would just be icing on the cake.

Imagine my elation when our maternity ward nurse told me that he looked just like me. Or when family and friends could see me in him as they gazed at him for the first time. Or when my mother-in-law wrote in her yearly Christmas letter than he didn't look like his father at all (but maybe he would end up acting like him). Even students from the high school I taught at before his birth agreed he was a total mama's boy ... And a good-looking one, at that!

It was wonderful! A dream come true!

But, ever so slowly, as my child grew from infant, to baby, to crawler the tide began to turn. Now, as is the consensus, he looks just like my husband.

What the heck happened?!

While I certainly (begrudgingly) agree, there are features that do not completely match up. For one, Malcolm's feet are definitely the same as mine ... Complete with long, stretchable toes that could almost double as fingers. I'm not sure if I should be proud of my magical toes, but at least it's something I share with my boy! Some tiny, if not greatly overlooked, feature that I can cling to.

We already know that his beautiful, stunning, blue eyes come from his father.

As much as I'd like to take all the credit and have people tell me how my beautiful little boy looks just like me, the truth is, Malcolm is a nice blend of the two of us ... Good old-fashioned meiosis at work. And, as a science teacher, I guess I shouldn't have expected anything less!

babysaurus wrecks (everything)

Malcolm reached the ten month marker on July 23rd (which if you have been reading was also our five year wedding anniversary). While there were no celebrations in his honor, there was plenty of mischief and mayhem ... And a bit of cuteness, too ... To go around.

Much of my daily routine (at least while Malcolm is awake) has disintegrated into chaos. From the moment Malcolm is put on the floor, it is his personal mission to destroy EVERYTHING IN HIS PATH! He loves knocking down block towers, emptying the contents from containers of all shapes and sizes, pulling items (like coasters and magazines) off of the coffee table, and chewing on anything that he can get his little hands on ... Not much unlike the fearsome theropod of Japanese cinema, Godzilla.

So, (you can probably see where I'm going with this) it is fitting that his outfit this week is also somewhat dinosaur-themed ... The shirt says "dino" across front, with a little dinosaur standing in for the "n." The only thing that keeps him from being a truly terrifying beast is his small stature ... That shirt is labeled as being suitable for someone that is merely six months old (and yet it fits him just perfectly)!

But Malcolm doesn't seem to mind ... He knows that good things come in small packages.

Tee-shirt: Carter's (thrifted for $1.00)
Shorts: Genuine Baby (thrifted for $2.50)
Sandals: unknown brand (thrifted for 2.50)

Or maybe that grin is actually saying: "Just wait until I'm bipedal, too!"

Although it wasn't kind to the dinosaurs, only time will tell.

even the best parents screw up sometimes

A haiku ...

Laughter fills the air
Babe slung over the shoulder
BUMP! Watch that door frame!

half of a decade

My husband and I have been married for five years (today!) and things are still absolutely wonderful.


I'm not surprised, really. I had a feeling that things would work out this way after our first, yet unofficial, date.

I was sitting at home, bored one summer evening and he called me.

"Do you want to go out and do something?" He eventually asked. "Grab something to eat? Catch a movie?"

At this point, we were merely friends (as I had the tendency to constantly remind him), and I knew he had other intentions. I didn't want to encourage him by going out, one-on-one, but I was really hungry and there was nothing good to eat in the house ...

"I guess we could," I said, as nonchalantly as humanly possible.

"Really?" There was a pause, like he hadn't expected me to take him up on the offer. "Okay ... I'll pick you up in twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes was about the time it took for him to drive from his house to mine. I certainly didn't need any time to get ready or primp or anything ... We were going out as friends. Strictly friends. No big deal. No need to actually look nice or anything.

When he showed up at my house, I was on the front porch waiting for him. I walked over to his parents' car (he had his license, but no car of his own) and got in. "Where to?" I asked.

He had it all planned out. He was taking me to a casual little restaurant that his parents used to take him to. It was movie themed (right up his alley) and everything had a catchy, if not corny, name. It wasn't much of a "hot spot," that evening, so we were seated in a cushy little booth right away. There was a piano player providing music and everything ... The mood was light. As always, we were having a good time.

We ordered our food: a "Humphrey Bogart" for him and some chicken fingers for me.

Things were going well (the conversation, the company, the food ) until the piano started a rousing rendition of The Entertainer. If you know this piece of music, you know that it starts slowly and builds and builds, getting faster and faster and faster until it just cuts off and stops altogether.

I found it to be an interesting choice of dinner music and made the comment: "This makes me want to start shoving food in my mouth," as I quickly brought the chicken fingers up to my face, one after the other, pretending to scarf them down.

Finding this particularly amusing, he agreed and we laughed and laughed as the song continued to play. Not more than five minutes after it had ended, he excused himself and disappeared into the men's room ... He was feeling sick.

Apparently, the laughter and the "Humphrey Bogart" didn't mix.

As I waited for him in the bathroom, our server brought the bill and I started going through my purse to find my part of the dinner.

A good fifteen minutes or so later, and he returned, looking pale and miserable. He apologized, and dug into his wallet, too, so that we could get out of there. Well, wouldn't you know, he was short on cash! In his excitement to get out of the house for our "date," probably with minimal questions, he didn't grab money.

He looked over at me sheepishly. "I'm short by a couple dollars," he mumbled.

"No problem, I've got it," I replied, going into my purse again.

I swear, his face went a little more pale ...

To this day, we look back on that date and chuckle about the "bad Bogart" he must have ordered, the quickening pace of the music, and the fact that he owed me money when all was said and done. I'm pretty sure that's not quite the event he had in mind when he called me that summer evening.

"Some date," I'd say, bringing it all back. "It just about sums us up, doesn't it?"

He'd just smile that quirky smile of his and sigh.

So, here we are, over ten years from that first, unofficial date, five years into our life together as "husband and wife," and parents of a perfect little boy ... And we're still together.

Maybe it's time find a babysitter, head back to that restaurant (for old time's sake), and give the "Humphrey Bogart" another try.

goody two shoes

For every physical feature that is just like his father, there is a personality trait that is eerily like me.

Case in point: This child is a total rule-follower and does not like to be reprimanded ...

Whenever he hears the word "no," his eyes get big and tear-filled, his bottom lip comes protruding out, and he bashfully retreats from the mean person that uttered the dreaded word. I remember reading in one of my parenting books that children understand "no" by about nine months of age, but whether or not they choose to respond to it is another story. Initially, I thought that that was crazy.

What nine-month-old reacts to being disciplined?

Apparently, mine does.

This morning, while nursing, Malcolm reached up and grabbed at my lip, pinching and pulling it pretty hard with his sharp little finger nails. As more of a reflex than anything, I loudly and sternly said: "Ouch! No, that hurts!"

Immediately, he pulled his hand back, releasing my face from his grip and becoming completely silent. His eyes got bigger than usual and I could see his chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace as he started to work himself up. Finally, a little whimper built up in his throat ...

He looked so sad that I felt really bad for telling him "no" in the first place. Surely he hadn't meant to nearly rip my lip off ... It could have been a lot worse. At least he hasn't taken to biting other sensitive areas! When I noticed the tears surfacing, I picked him up off of the Boppy pillow and enveloped him in a big hug. He just let me cuddle him for a minute, without noise or protest, and I could feel all the signs of sadness slipping away.

When all was well, I apologized for upsetting him during his morning meal and we went back to nursing without incident.

Although he certainly makes me feel guilty about doing it, I think that his aversion to being reprimanded is pretty funny ... Not to mention quite useful. I can only hope that this little character trait continues on through the toddler years and beyond.

Having a little goody two shoes is just fine with me!