FONT-SIZE: 10pt; COLOR: black; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">I like to think that my children inherited all of their good traits from my end of the gene pool and all of their annoying habits from my husband’s little puddle.

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The way that each of my kids can raise one quizzical eyebrow, their love of Broadway show tunes and their aversion to brussels sprouts – these fine characteristics are directly attributable to me. Their selective hearing, their messy rooms, the way they lose their winter coats before the first snow – these are flaws that must have been passed on by my husband’s faulty DNA.

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Sometimes the lineage is easy to trace – like the way my mother-in-law’s nose is smack in the middle of my daughter’s face. Other traits are harder to identify. For instance, someone (on my husband’s side) is responsible for my youngest son’s tiny, little bladder. I figure that there must be a distant relative who missed the boat to America and got left in the Old Country because they were in the outhouse.

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FONT-SIZE: 10pt; COLOR: black; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">We didn’t discover our son’s condition until he was out of diapers. That’s when he began repeating his mantra “I gotta go.” Since then, he’s spent a lot of time in the bathroom.

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He has missed the thrilling conclusion of countless movies, the final inning of his Little League championship game and our family’s only actual dinnertime conversation all while answering nature’s call.