May 1, 2006

It’s in the genes

From the very moment we found out each of our baby daughter’s were on their way, we started thinking about who she would look like, what she would be like, and most importantly, whose nose she would have. There was no question that our girls would be born with blue eyes, but both of our daughters definitely got my eye color(darker blue) and shape. Personality begins to show itself after a few months. We always thought Big I was a fairly low maintenance baby until we had Lil C who is the most laid back child on the face of the Earth. Big I required miles worth of bouncing while walking to get her to sleep. Lil C, when tired, requires only the "twi" from the song "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and she’s out like a light.

Other traits are more likely learned. Big I’s fear of bugs probably comes from the fact that every time there is a bug in the house, Daddy is called to deal with it. Mommy wants no part of that whole scenario. Eye rolling seems to be a learned behavior too; and unfortunately I am also responsible for that lovely trait. Over the last few months though, it has become very clear that Big I has inherited something else wonderful from her mother.

Apparently, being a clutz is in the genes. Let me start by saying that I am one of those people who can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time. Yes, I can. And, when I was a teenager in jazz dance class I learned this thing where one arm goes up and down while the other arm goes up, out and then down and I mastered it, faster than anyone else I know. Obviously I do not suffer from a complete and utter lack of coordination. It seems to be more related to the inability to pay attention when it matters.

Take my first date with my husband for example. We were walking on a lovely tree-lined street on our way to a movie theater. We were sharing little niceties and getting to know each other, when a tree branch rudely smacked me in the forehead Wizard of Oz style. It practically gave me whiplash. It was a great laugh for my husband and remains so to this day. At the time, it wasn’t so funny for me. My forehead was a little red and the worst part was my bruised ego. It was a first date after all, and I REALLY liked the guy. Obviously, things worked out considering he’s been my husband for going on eight years, but still I could have done without the little smack back to reality.

Consider also, what happened to me a few months ago. I had just left a doctor’s office building after an appointment and was descending a set of about six steps down to the parking lot. A cold swift wind blew my hair in front of my face and I missed a step. I came down hard on my straight right leg, which sent me catapulting forward. I stomped my left foot out in an attempt to save myself the fall, but the momentum that the top part of my body had was a bit too much. It seemed to happen in slow motion, but when all was said and done, I was a good 6 feet away from the steps, having skidded across the parking lot on the palms of my hands, and knees before I finally came to an abrupt but welcome stop on my back. My first reaction was to look around and see if anyone had noticed. No one was around, so I took my time getting up, shook off the gravel, took inventory of the injuries and then began to collect my belongings that had been strewn about in the parking lot at two foot intervals representing the path of the fall.

My little missteps provide great fun for others, but for me, they’re pretty embarrassing. Now, it appears that Big I has the same problem. She has always been an injury prone kid. She is constantly bruised on the shins and occasionally on her back. She likes to "dance" in the living room and by dance I mean combine dance moves with karate and gymnastics that usually end up shaking the living room floor if not the whole house. She inevitably ends up throwing herself on the floor somehow resulting in these mysterious bruises. Her most famous saying as of late occurs after one of these dance falls where she stands straight up after a body twisting fall to declare, "I’m o.k." Mary Catherine Gallagher style.

Last week we were all taking a walk. Big I was doing her dance moves in the street which involve jumping, twisting, and spinning with karate knife hands. Next thing you know, she has a knee full of gravel and a nice hole in her capri pants. Not even a week later, the child runs out the front door, trips and goes crashing into the pavement, attaining yet another boo-boo to add to the knee collection. Last year, she wiped out so badly while playing at a playground that my husband and I were both thanking Sam’s Club and that great first aid kit we had picked up just days before. Otherwise, I really don’t know what we would have done. Big I went to ballet class the next day looking like a warrior: scraped chin, lip, knees, hands, etc. etc. etc.

I know she’s accident prone, but until today I didn’t realize how much so. For Easter, we bought the girls those make your own stone kits. We took advantage of Lil C’s long nap and started mixing it up outside. We mixed the concrete-like material and poured it into the mold. I had just finished getting all the air bubbles out, and leveling the material. I just wanted to clean up the bucket and then we were going to start decorating. I set the mold on the one step, out of the way, and told Big I to be careful she didn’t get anywhere near it. No sooner than I turn around and pick up the hose nozzle, do I hear a feeble, "Mommy?"

I turn around to see Big I standing with the heel of one of her brand new $48 sandals firmly planted inside the mold. Concrete is spilling onto our sidewalk and the bottom of Big I’s shoe is coated in it as well. "OH MY GOD!" I screamed. It had been only SECONDS since I had turned my back and given instructions to be careful. I helped her remove her foot, cleaned off the sandal and went to work on the mold once again. It all worked out, although our sidewalk has a little extra to it now.

People are always looking at us like we’re overprotective lunatics when Big I is playing outside or with other kids because we are constantly reminding her to "be careful" and "watch where you’re going". It’s for good reason though! She has often been so involved in telling us something that she neglects to watch where she’s going and has ended up walking into doors, walls, etc. It is obvious that she has inherited yet another lovely trait from her mother. (I won’t even bother to go into detail about my encounter with a screen door a few years back.)

Because of this, my husband and I have been questioning whether giving our baby the middle name "Grace" was really a good idea. Only time will tell.