Tonawanda News — Genetics is a funny thing.
My two boys don’t look a thing like me. (At least, I don’t think so.) They look like their father, or their paternal grandfather, or to some extent my younger brother, with a dash of whichever random relative contributed the still-white-blond hair my youngest sports into the mix.
(Don’t look at me; I have no idea. I was blond as a kid, but not that blond or for this long. The next time someone asks me where it came from, I swear I’m going to chirp “the milkman!” just to see what they’ll do.)
They both have blue eyes, but not my blue eyes. They’re either a particularly gorgeous dark blue (bequeathed to my eldest by his late paternal grandpa) or a slightly paler blue that could have come from various other relatives. To be fair, they don’t have hazel eyes from my husband, either, although since they both look strikingly like his childhood pictures I don’t think it matters much.
A collective 18 months of pregnancy, 30-some hours of labor and various bouts of morning sickness, stretch marks and other fun mommy stuff tell me pretty clearly they’re my kids. I don’t stress about the lack of a resemblance, although sometimes I wish I’d passed on just a little something, like a tendency toward red in their hair or the shape of my eyes.
The older they get, though, the more I clearly see the non-physical characteristics I passed on to them for better or worse. Maybe it’s nature. Maybe it’s nurture. At any rate, it’s there.
My oldest, he takes after his dad, by and large. They both hate crowds, have an extraordinary ear for music and will thrive on late nights if given the opportunity.