Genetics are like the force “I have it, my father has it, my brother has it”. You catch my drift. And I blame genetics for everything, especially traits I like to pretend are out of my control, some good, some bad. I blamed genetics when my 8 month old had a severe reaction to penicillin. I blame genetics when I climb the counter to reach the tops shelves in the cabinets. I blame genetics when I’m cranky because I’m hungry and when I’m not parked between the lines and when I’m complemented on Eli’s good looks and temperament.
My most recent accusation occurred at the doctor’s last week. They take inventory: height, weight, blood pressure, horoscope, body temperature , tattoos and my personal favorite – family history. Over all it was an encouraging appointment. I’m excited to blame genetics for the fact that at only months shy of turning 30 and after the transformation of pregnancy, my physical stats are rather identical to those from when I was in high school. And I do believe I’m quite pretty for being the spitting image of my father.