How I am Becoming My Parents

I don’t like to admit this, but I am turning into my mother. Worse yet, I’m turning into my mother AND my father.

I’ve always been a genetic mix of my parents. I have light, freckled skin and a narrow upper body (complete with a small bust), thanks to my dad, and dark hair and eyes (not to mention a bigger tush and ample thighs), compliments of my mom. I could have been a tanned, buxom, long-legged hottie, but that damn Punnett Square had other ideas. My personality is a complete mix as well: I’m sarcastic and hardworking like my dad; Emotional and perfectionistic like my mom … And stubborn like both of them. Yep, genetics at it’s best and worst!

I will probably always be a flat-chested, freckle-faced, tenacious, Type A girl. It’s who I am and I’ve made peace with it. Sort of. But parts of me have changed as I’ve gotten older. Some for the better, on purpose: I’m stronger and healthier, less selfish and more confident (I’m still working on being less emotional and more easy-going); Some other changes have been less intentional and eerily like my parents.

Here are the top 4 ways I’m becoming more like my mother as I age:

I find myself in Home Goods more often than I’d like to admit. Browsing, sometimes buying stuff I don’t really need, and always using their restroom (I told you in my last post that I have a small bladder).
I am mildly obsessed with kitchen gadgets and flavored balsamic vinegar. I’d be lost without my NutriBullet, veggie spiraler, pineapple corer and citrus mister (Not sure those are the official names for any of those items (except the first), but that’s what I call them).
My magazine subscription habit is growing out of control. I blame my mother for this, though, because many are gift subscriptions sent from her.
I can’t hear. I swear the people around me (mostly my husband and kids) mumble and whisper. At least that’s what I’m telling myself … Right, Mom?

And the top 4 ways I’m becoming my father:

I am a master of back roads and side streets in my area. Drop my dad in Brooklyn and he knows six different routes back home. He is the original Rand McNally. For me, it’s Chester County, although I’m not quite as good as my dad.
I am very picky and extremely precise about the length of my shorts. Five inches — not three. Not seven. Five.
I cannot read a sign, article, email or post without correcting the grammatical mistakes. This is definitely my dad’s fault. He used to have me help grade papers, red pen and all. Guess old habits die hard.
I can’t sit still. If I do, I fall asleep … Just like my dad.

The truth hurts. Thankfully, my parents each have a good sense of humor. And while I do seriously wish that they had combined genes differently so I got a smaller bum and bigger boobs instead of the other way around, I am grateful for all they’ve given me. If others consider me half as loyal, loving and generous as my parents both are, then I know I’ve hit the genetics jackpot, for sure.