Passing on the gene

It started out like any normal day. My wife had the day off and was helping to get the kids ready for school. Lunches were made, shoes and socks were on, and all that was left was getting the kids and their paraphernalia out the door, in the car, and on to school.

Suddenly! My son can't find his lunch box! Panic ensues! "Mom! Where's my lunch box!"

My wife, ever cool, replies "Your lunch box? I don't know... where do you think it is?"

My son's busily looking around. It's not on the counter. It's not on the floor. It's not on the table! "No, Mom... I really can't find it!"

It's getting late. My wife isn't helping! This is odd. She looks... incredulous. Hmmm....

I glance down. He's carrying it! He's had it in his hand the entire time. And, no. He's not joking.

And it's my fault. I know it is. I passed on the gene. The Flake gene.

I know he's inherited the Flake gene from me, because when I was in high school, something similar happened. I had misplaced my pencil (in Journalism class, of all places), and I was asking if anyone had seen it. One girl, Jenny, started laughing. She was laughing so hard she could only vaguely point at me. Or, rather, behind me. I turned and looked. Nothing. She laughed harder and gesticulated at me more wildly! Not behind me, then... maybe... my ear? Yes. The darn thing was behind my ear.

So, it may be that my son is doomed to flakedom. On the bright side, he's also inherited a good sense of humor (probably from my wife). Once he spotted the lunch box in his own hand, he broke into this wonderful laughter that stayed with me all day.