A week ago, my younger boy reminded me about genetics again, because I discovered that he was a collector, just like his paternal grandmother. I had to spend more than twenty minutes pleading with him to return the little boxes, miniature picture frames, fairy teeth, and other objects that he had been moving for weeks into his closet.
That explained also why I had not been allowed to come to his room, where he kept receiving me with a cold “What are you doing here?” He hadn’t wanted me to discover the hiding place where these objects were disappearing.
To convince him to relinquish same of the objects, I tried to invoke aesthetic principles. “Look!" I said. "The metal frame and the shiny ball go together, but the wooden boxes should stay close to the wood vases.” He was unconvinced. In this tug-of-war, I had to be the one to give up first, which made me think, this stubbornness of his—where did he get it?
The next morning, however, after I got out of bed, I saw that he had returned some of the objects, and that he kept in his room only those that matched a proper nine-year-old boy's collection.
I love genetics!
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