Genetics

Marianne told me that she was "saving a small fortune in gift tags this year" by color coding the gifts under the tree for her 6 children . Every child has his or her own wrapping paper.

I said that would work well for me because I have lots of wrapping paper.

But it wouldn't work well for me because none of it goes together and coordinating gifts under the tree are a thing of beauty for yours truly.

I have a small problem...and I confided it to my skilled sister who's cranking out twice the gifts for twice the children. I have too much wrapping paper.

Every year I buy a roll or two after Christmas. Because they're so cheap! And I love a good bargain!

Then every autumn I buy a roll or two. Because they're so pretty! And I love Christmas!

The same thing happens with ornaments. I bought a big set of red balls for my family room tree to find an unopened set near my Christmas boxes under the stairs. I bought them last year. After Christmas.

And I succumbed and bought some more straw ornaments for my living room tree too. I need more straw ornaments like Seattle needs more clouds.

Rats.

Marianne told me that I was like our mother. She said, "Remember the mustard?"

Oh yes. Our poor mother. She doesn't deserve the cheeky daughters she was given.

When she was a school teacher (she taught business, accounting, computers, key boarding), she was also the FBLA leader. Because my mom is capable beyond all reason, they gave the FBLA the job of concession stands at the basketball games. My mom with a handful of stalwart future business leaders of America would serve out hamburgers and hot dogs. My mom hated every greasy minute of it.

But she did it.

Because that's who she is.

She was busy. Busier than I hope to ever be and she'd buy more ketchup and mustard when she was at the store just in case she needed more. Once when I was home visiting (because my mom was only a teacher after I'd left home), I counted and between my mom's two refrigerators, there were 13 containers of mustard! Thirteen!

We teased our dear mother about all that mustard.

And now here I am with the wrapping paper.

If you can inherit quirks from your mother, you can also inherit insanity from your children.

When Braeden was little, he insisted that the nursery rhyme went, "When the pie was old, the birds began to sing..."



I would try to convince him that it was, "When the pie was opened," to no avail. I finally realized the futility of arguing with a toddler and I told him that when he was older and could read, he would know that I WAS RIGHT.

He was two. I'm not proud of myself.

But still, I was right.

The other day at lunch we were having one of our bizarre conversations of unknown origins and Braeden said that the Keebler elf was a girl. In the interest of brotherly solidarity, Mark agreed wholeheartedly with Braeden. Emma insisted that he most certainly was a boy elf. I agreed (of course) with Emma and Braeden said, "Listen to the voice next time. It's a girl. And kind of creepy."

Emma said, "He is wearing pants!" I indicated the jeans both she and I were wearing and told her that wasn't a great argument.

"It's a boy though Braeden. I promise," I assured my gender confused son.

Braeden insisted otherwise and I remembered the Sing a Song of Sixpence incident.

Except for what future event will prove to Braeden I'm right? The Keebler. Elf. Is. A. Boy.

Turns out Adam was the key. When I told him the story he reminded me, "The Elf is named Ernie."

Ah-ha!

(See what I mean, insanity...you inherit it from your children and it gets really sad when you argue at lunch over whether or not the Keebler Elf is a boy or a girl. Really sad.)