height? bald heads? We're all tall, despite our mother's towering presence a hair over five feet, all the men are bald except the ones who opted for expensive beaver pelts to cover up the beauty above, and we can deny reality better than the best of ya'. The girls aren't bald, though, and I'm not happy about that.
I believe our greatest inherited trait is our infinite capacity to deny all that is unpleasant. Dad's famous for saying, "let's talk about something more pleasant" right when the opportunity for self-revelation or crystal clear introspection stands at the door with a bouquet of roses, a bottle of wine and promises of love and devotion.
Our mother was a more direct individual and, had she lived longer, would more than likely have imprinted her ways upon our emotional pathways to lasting effect with greater efficacy than the ostrich genomics our father granted. He's a good guy, but even now as he is unable to walk or take care of himself he believes that a magic pill will put his feet back under him and everything will be A-OK. His is not a Pollyanna sweet dismissal of all that sucks, rather a luxuriant soak in the suckiness, basking in every dark cloud, which is probably why he'd rather "talk about something more pleasant."
Having kids I can't believe how much of myself I see already being passed down through blood. The size thing is nice. Today when I was shopping for dresses at a pricey boutique in North Raleigh the shop owner remarked how tall my three year old girl is.
"She's two." I corrected. "Two years and two weeks."
"And how tall?"
"Good for her!" Like it was something she'd been working on every day and night, all her life. "She'll have long legs."
God, I hope so. I hope she doesn't sprout a torso 60 inches long and sixteen inch legs. Our pediatrician rolled her eyes last week and told us that at 2 years you can typically double their height to get their adult height. Oh my. We hope she gets (and keeps) her mother's hair.