One of the more pleasantly surprising aspects of parenthood is the occasional reminder of the power of nature over nurture. The other morning, I asked Miss M what she wanted for breakfast, and she said oatmeal. But then she specified, “Apple cinnamon oatmeal, and not too … like, wet.” Now, I don’t think I’ve ever made this for her before, and I don’t recall her ever seeing me eat it. So it therefore seems striking that her favorite flavor, and preferred thickness, would be the exact same as mine.
Of course, there can be less pleasant reminders. At dinner the other night, I looked over to see that she had taken her Sister Schubert roll (or tea roll, as my people know them) and mashed it up into a doughy ball. Just like I used to do. I was torn between scolding her and telling her that it’s even better if you bite off all the crusty part first.