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Each one of us has about 20,000 protein-coding genes and the composition of these genes is what defines us as individuals. They are passed down to us by our parents and our parents’ parents and our parents’ parents’ parents and this is why my farts smell exactly like my father’s (Don’t fact check me on this one, Neil deGrasse Tyson).
I’m something of an amateur scientist so I urinated some blood and went ahead and mapped out all 20-some odd thousand of my genes to select the top genetic traits that I’ve passed on to my child.
The Ability To Sleep Through A Fire Alarm
Daddy likes his late night grilled cheeses and professional chefs and I both know that the secret to a top-notch grilled cheese is, it’s cooked to perfection when the smoke detector goes off.
And like Cinderella leaving her glass slipper as the clock struck midnight, I too knew that my daughter was special as she slept through a smoke detector blast at one in the morning.
I couldn’t help but reflect back to my college days when I’d sleep through the sonic boom of an industrial strength dorm fire alarm that was positioned beside my head as I lay asleep on the top bunk.
So as I feverishly fanned a dish towel trying to expel black smoke from my apartment while my daughter miraculously continued to doze, I felt my chest swelled with pride — she got it from me.
Superior Musical Taste
I spend hours making a playlist. Each track is meticulously selected for its quality and adherence to playlist theme.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when my then month-old daughter began dancing to Beyonce’s Lemonade, which made her Top Albums of the Year list — but please, do NOT mention Queen B’s Album of the Year Grammy snub or she’ll cry inconsolably for hours.
My baby’s taste in music is just as varied as her father’s — whether it’s ‘the Itsy Bitsy Spider,’ Simon & Garfunkel or Kid Cudi, she throws her hands in the air and bops to the beat as she catches the holy ghost. When a car pulls up to the corner bumping Migos and she starts rocking out to “Bad and Boujee,” I realize I too will have to give her that classic parental speech about the dangers of purple drank.
I’ve taught her sign language for “more”, “all done” and right now we’re working on “DJ spin that shit!”
I used to run an open mic where I’d host 50+ comics every Tuesday night. It was widely regarded as one of the best mics in town and do you want to know the secret behind the mics’ greatness? Why it’s the cacophony of my fake laughter of course.
My fraudulent chuckle kept the room energized through the doldrums of bad comedy week after week and it seems that my darling daughter has inherited my notorious fake laugh. Whenever people laugh, her giggle reflex kicks in which only serves to stoke the group’s guffaws until we’re all convulsing on the floor with a serious case of the teehees.
She better be careful — she could accidentally give false hope to terrible comics just like her pops did. I shudder to think how many truly awful comedians’ careers I accidentally extended with my fake laugh.
Eating Off The Floor
My lil’ lady is not afraid to eat off the floor and let’s just say the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. As soon as she learns how to count I’ll teach her the 5 second rule. When she starts talking I’ll instruct her how to, after egregiously consuming ground morsels, throw up her hands and say “What, I just swiffered!”
My daughter and I are either very prone to nighttime perspiration or we’re eating atomic hot wings in our sleep. Every day we both wake up thinking, “Oh my God did I pee the bed?” only to realize it was just the night sweats. Then we both change our diapers and go about our business.
Don’t even bother putting away the clean dishes and silverware because after you’re asleep I will sneak out of bed to rearrange them in the correct manner. It’s like people don’t even care about making sure the wine glasses are arranged in an aesthetically pleasing manner and all the coffee mug handles are aligned at a 22 and and a half degree angle.
I thought I was bad until I watched my daughter spend hours playing with her stacking cups, trying to find the perfect order for those colored plastic cylinders. I haven’t seen anyone take that long to decide which cup to pick since the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
We Both Let My Wife Dress Us
Okay, I admit this one isn’t genetic, but you can always tell my wife is out of town when my daughter’s dressed worse than a grizzled homicide detective on staycation. Myself — I prefer to dress like I’m on maternity leave.
It could be her age or the fact that she doesn’t have full control of her motor functions yet but my tiny offspring couldn’t pick out a matching ensemble if her container of cheerios depended on it.
So thanks for making us not look like schlubs honey and be sure to pick up my new book I Have No Fashion Sense: Plus 10 Other Reasons My Wife Dresses Me.