DNA is a crafty bastard



There are times when I worry about my children getting the worst of their family genes.  Whether it be the weird asscrack (for the record…that is an ass crack that is weird…not a weirdass crack)  everyone has on my mother’s side, (thanks, Mom, by the way) or the tendency to have Irish Cancer (read: alcoholism) from my father’s side.  And, yes, you all now know that I have a weird ass crack.  In my defense, I am hardly EVER alcoholic, so at least I have that going for me…weird ass-fissure, or not.

It’s really not any better on my ex-husband’s side, so they’re screwed there, as well.  When I was seven months pregnant with my daughter, we were visiting back east, when my grandmother-in-law wondered out loud if my daughter would have the “twin toes”.  At this point, I gave an incredulous look that traveled from my husband to his grandmother.  He carefully and wisely avoided eye contact, and got up to pour himself another drink (WASP Cancer…same thing as Irish Cancer, but with way less brevity and singing).

At this point, she slips her left shoe off and shows me what can best be described, as a mutation.  Her second and third toes were, for lack of a better term, conjoined.  From root to tip…those two little fuckers were in this together.  Two toenails…one double-wide toe.

At this point, I gave my husband a look that screamed, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO MY BABY!?” as effectively as if I had thrown one of his old lacrosse trophies at his head, and he wisely slid from the room…highball glass in hand.

Me: (trying to appear non-challant, and NOT be a complete bitch to an 85-year-old woman) “S-s-so, does anyone else have this in the family?”

Mutant Grandma: “My mother had it, and my son does.  Oh, and Brooks’ (father of my unborn child) toes are partially webbed.”

Me: “Excuse me for a moment.”

It was at this point that I left the room to track that man down, because, so help me God, I wasn’t sure if I was going to kill him for somehow hiding this from me, or smack myself for not noticing.  How I had not only slept with a frogman, but I had also managed to marry him without noticing, was beyond me.

Thankfully, my daughter was born with perfectly normal feet.  If she hadn’t been…baby’s first plastic surgery would have been scheduled before her placenta had seen the light of day.

All in all, mutations dodged, the kid turned out pretty great.  If I had to nail down my greatest genetic accomplishment, it would be that, thus far, my daughter has somehow managed to get my brains, but she entirely missed out on my boobs.  That’s right, boys…you have to respect her for her mind!  TAKE THAT!

My sincerest hope is that this will serve to give her a life of rampant nerdery, but it might also minimize her Irish Cancer risk in college, because that kid is going to be broke as hell, and very few men look across bars and offer to buy a girl a drink, based on her extensive knowledge of genetics, calculus, American history, and Dr. Who.  Although, if that guy exists, he has my blessing…right after I check his feet.

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