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Freakish Genetics

You know the gene that must get transferred from parent to child that would eventually lead to common sense and foresight? I'm pretty sure I don't have it. I was hoping that somehow it merely skipped a generation and would pick back up with Ben, but my hopes are starting to flicker.

I can totally see how the thought of biting my cousin's butt, (if I were Ben), would be pretty hilarious. But that inkling of foresight that I have might stop me because it probably wouldn't be so funny once Ethan is crying and I'm in time-out feeling sorry for myself. At four years old, hindsight is far more prevalent than foresight.

As an example of my lack of foresight, I'll tell you this story. Junior year in high school, my best bud Karen & I were roomies at flag camp. After breakfast one morning, we thought we'd experiment by putting an apple in the microwave of our Wright State dorm room for about 3 hours. When we came back for lunch, the hallway was filled with smoke and people were gagging at the smell of torched apple. Our room wasn't fit for living, so we had to pull our reeking mattresses down the hall to Heidi's room to sleep out the rest of the week. Even at seventeen years old, foresight sure as hell hadn't set in.

At 25 years old, in the beginning of Ben, I made a few mistakes like leaving him on a changing table, where in the space of a whopping millisecond, he rolled off. Duh. Or when I had the bright idea that maybe Ben's baby butt needed to air dry for a bit. So I put the happy bare bottomed baby on the floor, where I witnessed Ben cross his eyes as he christened his own forehead.

So here I am at 29 and pretty sure that my foresight age became stunted by the toxic apple fumes and I haven't progressed in the slightest. I'm convinced of this fact when I repeatedly lock my keys in the car or leave a bottle of wine to expand and burst in the freezer or attempt to lick chocolate cake batter off the beaters while the mixer is still turned on.

Until they come up with a pocket taser that sends a powerful electric current through your body every time you're about to do something stupid, Ben and I are pretty much screwed.

Poor Ben. Poor, poor baby. Thanks to my freakish genetics, you're bound to be biting booties for the rest of your sweet existence.