Remember my dilemma with my jock daughter? How difficult it has been for me to understand this little athlete in my life? I am reliving it all now, only this time with my little scientist, she who experiences a tinge of disappointment when her own wound does not draw enough blood for her to see.
I hate blood. Can't stand the sight of it. Makes me gag (So do complete sentences.).
In high school chemistry class Mr. B often looked at the results of my experiments, shook his head gently, and sweetly praised my writing or acting abilities. It was clear to him that I should never pursue a career in science. At all. Ever. You know those indestructible science tables? I destroyed one during the same experiment that turned my hand purple. My table-mates dubbed me "Janice", after Janice the Muppet, the spacey one who sang in Animal's band.
Somehow, I am to parent a mad scientist. With hair to match. And a crazy wicked laugh when she is in her science mode.
Nature or nurture? My jock and I do not share DNA. My scientist and I do. I am neither jock nor scientist. Go figure.
|At her request, I knit Blueberry this anatomical heart.|