As much as I hate to admit it the older I get the more I get to be like my mother. In a word neurotic. Ok and a little OCD. Maybe a little flaky too, but that’s it. Well, there may be a little crazy thrown in there for good measure, but that’s it, I swear. So this being like my mom thing isn’t so bad, except my sister and I pinky swore when we were kids that we would never be like her. Of course my sister took off and left me to fend for myself with the mother. It’s her fault really. I blame Little. I could think of worse people to be like. My dad for instance. Oh wait… hmmm… obsessively on time and also a little flaky. Shit. Ok, Charles Manson. Hey! At least I’m not a serial killer.
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, genetics. I’m not a geneticist and my knowledge on the subject of genetics extends about as far as a Mendel Square. But what I am keenly familiar with is the traits passed from an adoptive parent to an adopted child. Other than a physical similarity biological offspring have nothing on us adoptees. You don’t have to be genetically related to your parents to become like them. This little fact scares the bejeezus out of me.
Thursday nights the trusty husband and I sub in the trusty MIL’s handbell choir (because one handbell choir evidently isn’t enough for us). That means the boy stays with the trusty FIL while we are at the church. We get back last Thursday and the trusty FIL says they were playing and something wasn’t going right for the boy. The boy says, “Aww crap.” Aw crap, uh I mean darn it. I can’t imagine where he gets that from.
The boy has this neurotic thing about stuff on his hands. Sand, dirt, sticky, anything. Thus the constant washing of the hands. Me? I have a rain man moment I get anything sticky on my hands. And heaven forbid I ever get pitch on my hands. I carry a bottle of Goo Gone where ever I go.
And this morning. The boy comes in and asks to have my keys. “The purple keys,” he says. Those would be my car keys. I told him he couldn’t have my car keys because oh look! a shiny red button! and he sets of my car alarm all. the. time. “Ummm ok, the red keys,” he says. See you are starting to realize how OCD I really am. Purple keys are the car keys and the red keys are the church keys. Why are they color coded? They aren’t. I’m just afraid of losing my keys so I have these bungee things on them. That’s not the point. The point is that I gave the red keys to the boy and he puts them around his arm (like I do) and proclaims that he’s going to the market. He then proceeds to get his shopping cart and puts Steve the Cat in it and shops to his hearts content.
The child is becoming more like me every day. Pretty soon he’ll be talking to himself and thinking the neighbors are out to get him.