Of course when you have children you expect to see the natural, physical resemblances your kids have to you. You notice the similar eyes, hair color/texture, and body shapes. For me, a shorty of the biggest kind, I've long kept a prayer, "Lord, give these kids some height." I might get a certain percentage of victory, but my Bball Girl is looking like it might be she and I looking low when we're all adults.
One of the traits that I share with my babies is crooked pinkies. Believe it. Rare, but true. I get them from my dad and who knows where he got them from. He told me once he broke them both playing baseball. Um. "No, Dad," I told him, "impossible for you to have passed them on to me genetically." Nonetheless, that funny man insisted that his advanced athletic skills and fierce competitive spirit resulted in two broken, and identical pinkies. Two generations later, while pregnant with the first of that generation, I prayed, "Lord, don't give this baby crooked pinkies." It was the first thing I checked for after giving birth to her. Confession: I have vivid memories of my own self-consciousness about raising my hand and showing those pinkies to the world.
What do you know, Soccer Chick was born without crooked pinkies. That said, my next two pregnancies I literally forgot to pray about it. I'm not saying that's why those two were born with crooked pinkies, but I do know I didn't do my part. Both those babies have my crooked pinkies, clear as day. You ever do that? Totally skip the most important part...to pray about it? Happens all the time, but it remains the main ingredient to whatever your recipe calls for.
Aside from the crooked pinkies, this back to school week showed me the genetic links between me and my kids goes beyond the physical. As Northern Virginia experienced torrential downpours this week, those precious babies reminded me they are mine. As they got off the bus yesterday, they took a hold of the umbrellas The Hub had brought for them. And as they ran the block to our house, rain pouring down, all three, not one but THREE of them were shouting "my shoes! my shooooesss!" YES! Confirmation. These are my babies. They are truly related to me.
I must tell, as a pre-teen I started my first babysitting job at age 12. My pay went to shoes. When I turned 16 and got my first job, my paycheck went to shoes. This girl loves some shoes. We can argue nature vs. nurture and you can debate that I taught my kids to be strongly concerned about the appearance of their shoes, but I will tell you I have not. I could be fibbing, but I'm going to stick with the belief that I have not passed on this love of feet coverings to those kids. Those gems come by their loves of shoes naturally. Sure, they can look at my shoe closet and see the 6 shelves full, sorted by color, of course. Every type, color and style. And as only a true shoe-addict knows, a little of every size. Now, you know it doesn't matter if they fit well. Do they look good? I suppose they have grown up around that, and for years the girls have played with my shoes. Nonetheless, I'm just glad they know what's important. God bless 'em. Forget about their hair, clothes, bookbags or anything else. Sweet children...concerned that their new shoes would be messed up. That's my babies. Mama is so proud.
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