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A Little Inbreeding Never Hurt No One

Late last summer, Emily and I wowed you with a sadly true tale of how inbred we are. I suggest you go back and read the original post for the whole sordid story (’cause you know, it’s funny), but the short version is that Emily and I are not only first cousins to each other, we are also FIFTH cousins to each other. (And our own siblings).

Back then, my Uncle Paul, my dad’s brother (who is one of the funniest people I know and the person from whom I get my *ahem* unparalled sarcastic wit) left a comment on that post stating that the family tree was even worse on my dad’s side of the family, who are from Virginia. (Emily and I are related on my maternal side via the great state of Kentucky). But I must confess, I thought he must have been exaggerating. ‘Cause it couldn’t get any worse, right?

Wrong. Reeeeeee-ooooong. Last week Uncle Paul sent me an email detailing our tree, or shrub, as it may be more accurately described. I present it to you, in summarized form:

So here’s how it breaks down. This “Mark” character on my family tree is the great-grandfather on both sides of the family to my grandma, and on one side of the family to my grandpa. So, where usually two people would have EIGHT great-grandfathers between them, my grandparents have SIX. Cause three of them?? ARE THE SAME GUY. Sooo….my grandparents are third cousins. My grandmother is also HER OWN THIRD COUSIN. My dad is his own fourth cousin, and I am my own fifth cousin, as well as fifth cousin to both of my brothers.

So, I am a *smidge* inbred.

ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FAMILY.

Incidentally, I am also lucky that I don’t have two heads.

I will not answer questions about the number of my fingers and toes.

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And Now it’s the Last Day of Preschool.

On September 4, 2007, I wrote this extremely neurotic post detailing the events of that morning – Kate’s first day of preschool.

We were both nervous about taking this new step.

And here we are, not quite two years later, and it’s her last day of preschool. Ever.

She’s happy and excited for today’s end-of-the-year picnic (which my sister has graciously agreed to attend while I am working), and she’s anxious to move on to the next thing, to be done with “baby school,” and to start kindergarten.

I would have thought I’d be wistful and sad about today, and I suppose I’ve had my moments, but really I am just so proud of this girl, and so grateful to see her grow and learn and mature and become even more amazing than she already is.

Watch out, world. Here she comes.

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When did WE become the grown ups?

Kate’s playing t-ball this spring, on the same field where I played many years ago. As I watched her game last night, I looked around the park and saw so many of the same faces I had seen on the field way back then.

But something was different, something was off.

We weren’t the kids running the bases, fielding ground balls or picking dandelions. We were the spectators, the coaches, the league organizers, the ones carrying Dora lawn chairs and passing out Capri Suns after the game. We were the parents.

We were the grown ups.

How did that happen? And who approved it? It doesn’t make any sense to me. Frankly I felt like we were all impostors, that there were some actual, real adults behind the scenes pulling strings.

I talked it over with Jenny, and she said she and Bobby had a very similar experience during Joshua’s kindergarten screening. He’s entering the same school they both attended, and they had the same feeling I did – the juxtaposition of roles, the impossibility that they weren’t still in elementary themselves, but it was their kid’s turn.

I don’t think I know enough to be a real grown up yet. Surely there are some secrets yet to be bestowed upon me, some magical moment when it will click and when I will start feeling like an adult.

But it sure hasn’t happened yet.

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