A cursed inheritance

Generally, I try to refrain from gushing about Milo, for fear of bringing an ironic Twilight Zonian curse down upon his head. I fear that if I admit how adorably cute I really think he is, I'll accidentally trip and drop him face first on to our George Foreman grill; or if I brag -- even silently, within the confines of my own mind -- about his obvious superior intelligence, a gigantic block of frozen airplane pee will fall from the sky and hit him right smack on the head.

Okay, so I'm a little superstitious.

Still, there's no denying it. That little boy definitely won a sizeable jackpot in the gene pool lottery. He seems to have inherited the best that Rob and I have to offer. He's got Rob's long, lean frame and my almost-reaching-Angelina-Jolie-proportions mouth. His wide, perceptive blue eyes could have come from either side of our family. Ditto for his high forehead and mischievous grin. His hands are huge and long-fingered and his ears are perfect. And his strength, oh my, have I ever mentioned his strength? His adamantium-reinforced skeletal structure could only have been inherited from Wolverine. Not really sure where Wolverine fits on the family tree (though Rob's chest is pretty hairy), but Milo's got to be related to him somehow.

Of course, Milo's not perfect. But I was prepared for all the less desirable traits we'd pass on to him. Or so I thought.

I expected him to be stubborn and impatient (and he is). I'm sure that as he gets older, he'll also reveal himself to be indecisive and overly self-absorbed at times. Possibly even judgmental. And oh yes, I'm already steeling myself for the inevitable trip to the optometrist's office before the age of 10, where he'll be told he needs glasses. Thick ones.

But one trait that I HADN'T been expecting to pass on to him -- that hadn't even occurred to me as a possibility -- was the feet. The stinky, sweaty Whalen feet. The feet that really make it infinitely more polite NOT to take your shoes off at the front door of an acquaintance's house. The feet that can drive coffin nails into what might have been a promising first date. The feet that can cause loved ones to gag.

Yes. Those feet. Milo has inherited them, I'm certain of it. The poor kid is only four months old, and already when I pull his socks off, they're damp with sweat, and even smell a bit sour.

What evil have I wrought upon my poor, unsuspecting progeny? Will he ever forgive me for the curse I've so thoughtlessly bestowed upon him?

Dear lord, I forgot about the feet.

I'd better get my kisses in while he's still willing
to be in the same room with me...