Hey Boos. I know, that is so funny. Saying “Boo” as a noun is trendy to be sure. I think it is street lingo for baby. I love “Boo.” The Dude and I used to call our new baby girl Boo before she could walk and before trendiness wiped its clingy hands all over the word.
Bo-Bo became our pudgy son’s moniker. As a baby he was a ball of chunk and sweat – now he is long and lean (but still sweaty.) When I look at him I see me; his brown eyes, thick straight brown hair and darker olive complexion speak to my mother’s side of the family. He even wears a few moles on his face, my mom’s mother sported them also. The shape of his eyes though are his dad’s. His good observational skills and memory – dad.
I could go on and on. Our funny daughter HRD is not afraid to tell a tale to escape a scrape, a trait I see in The Dude and his mom. Sometimes I wish I had that chutzpah. I’m pretty boring and straightforward, can’t help it. I’m not honest all the time, but the creativity that the Dude and his ilk summon when under pressure is impressive.
When The Dude and I were dating I was concerned that I was taller than him. When my concern surfaced we stood in his kitchen and viewed our reflections in the window, our images showed him to be about an inch-and-a-half taller than me. Huh, I remarked. Odd. Didn’t seem like it but OK, who could argue with their own eyes?
Later I learned that The Dude, who is actually a half-inch taller than me elevated his heels when we stood side-by-side. That bit of subterfuge would never even occur to me. I wholly appreciate it and we love to tell our kids that story.
We are all little pieces of our parents and all who came before them. I remember an Oprah episode when comedian Chris Rock had his family tree unearthed and he discovered that a previously unknown ancestor was very accomplished and noted for his oratorical skills. His grin of acknowledgment and appreciation was evident.
My father’s father played the bagpipes and liked to write. He also unfortunately suffered from schizophrenia and died in a mental institution, but thankfully that gene seems to have skipped me and my children. One of my mother’s relatives, Uncle Tally, lived to be about 103. Yes! I want that piece of the pie. In fact my own mother is 82 and she kicks booty. She regularly babysits her 4-year-old grandniece, takes her to the library and is teaching her to read. (Please dear God don’t let me jinx her health by writing about it!)
Some pleasant and not-so-pleasant traits shuffle along our genetic byways. I love to watch the traffic. Easily I can delve into short but in-depth conversations with strangers about their histories or their lives because people are just darn fascinating.
It’s scary how much our past is our future and visa versa. Boo.