Yesterday, a licensed professional social worker came to our house to determine, among other things, the safety of our home and our fitness to parent. This is the kind of thing that causes me to break out in hives and have nightmares, after being reported to CPS once and the police once. (I was planning on linking to those stories for humor purposes, but I can’t find it in the archives…)
Anyways, she came and interviewed us and looked at the house, and amazingly, we passed the inspection. So we might have a baby in a month. GASP. Yeah, looks like it’s going to move pretty quick.
During the interview yesterday, she asked Toby which book was his favorite. He thought about it for a second, and then said, “Well, I like them all…” I had this flash of me saying that, a thousand times, of my dad sweeping his arm across a wall of books. It was such a sweet moment of connectedness, of heritage that it stopped me in my tracks for a second.
I was thinking today about the new baby, whoever he or she is, and how a lot of who they are will be genetic, and not my genetics. If they are musical, or athletic, or brilliant, we can’t claim that trait as “ours”. That will be an adjustment. It’s food for thought. How much of who we are is hereditary, and how much is learned or taught? Am I funny because my family is funny, or am I funny because my DNA has some kind of humor gene?
I know there are things that can be taught and passed down, that we will “look” like each other in the ways that count, and I look forward to celebrating whoever this baby is. Just percolating in the ol’ mental cavity here.