Is That Her Father?

Genes are funny things.  How can random assortments of proteins be so kind in some instances (Sumie and Mimi) and horrifically cruel in others (that would be me)? 

Mimi is, of course, a mixed child - half Japanese and half white.  And one can tell.  I think her eyes share the story best: wide, open, and bright, they still come to a distinctly Asian point at the corners. 

This combination of genes makes Mimi a bit of an ethnicity chameleon.  In Japan, she'll definitely be viewed as a "gaijin," or "foreigner."  Conversely, to the vast majority here in the states, she's Asian.  This makes for the occasional awkward encounter for her overwhelmingly white father.

Finishing up our Christmas shopping on Saturday, we came across a local toy store.  I love these.  Though a bit more expensive, they often have some great toys you can't find anywhere else.  This store was no exception.  At one of the play tables was a blue substance called "Bubber."  It's a play-doh-like modeling compound that doesn't dry out, crumble, stain, or get worked into carpets.  What's more, Mimi loved it.  Here's a dramatic re-enactment staged at her own play table back home.

At the toy store, a little girl, no more than 6 years old, sidled up to Mimi.  Sumie stood alongside them.  As they played, the snot draining from Mimi's perpetually runny nose began to hit critical mass.  She needed a tissue, stat.  Sumie called me over and I, tissue in hand, began to administer toxic clean-up procedures.  And then I heard a small, timid, concerned voice:  "Is that her father?" 

To say the question was asked in horror would be a slight exaggeration.  Slight.  The little girl was obviously concerned.  She'd put together that Sumie was Mimi's mom, but how could this lumbering, pudgy, pasty monstrosity be related to the cute little girl with dark curly hair?  And why the hell was he wiping her nose?!

I couldn't help myself.  I responded, "No, I'm just a complete stranger who likes wiping noses."  Sumie, thankfully, jumped in and reassured her, "Yes, that's her daddy (sigh)." 

It's natural to think some of your personal preferences are genetic and that these may carry over to your progeny.  Neither Sumie nor I enjoy dancing.  So much so that we crafted an entire wedding, our own, without a single dance.  There was a slide show, even a live performance on the guitar, but no one cut a rug.  For years we'd chalked up our dancing troubles to genetics.  Mimi, however, may be proving us wrong.

Last Sunday was Sumie's holiday work party.  It was set to start from 4pm.  Naturally, we arrived at 5:30.  Normally I'm punctual to a fault, but delays are expected when you're foolish enough to let a toddler help you dress.

Despite Mimi's help we did eventually make it to the party.  We caught the very tail end of dinner, which meant that as soon as we sat down, everyone else hit the dance floor.

This was Mimi's first time at a real party and she was a bit apprehensive.  After much beckoning, we brought her out to the dance floor.  The new faces, setting, and music were a bit disorienting, I'm sure, but Mimi held it together.  She didn't shake it out there, but she didn't freak out, either.

She lasted about 10 minutes or so before leaving the ballroom to see the trees in the hall  "Ah," Sumie and I thought, "our genes are kicking in.  She's seeking out some peace and quiet."  How wrong we were.

After abusing the trees for a while, Mimi ran back toward the ballroom.  She didn't go in - it was still a bit much for her, I think - but she did catch the beat and start bopping.  When Mimi dances she bounces up and down roughly to the beat.  This continues until the end of the song, when she breaks into violent, Frankenstein-esque clapping spasms. 

Mimi was finding her dancing shoes.  By 8pm, she was done with dancing in the hall and ready for the big time.  She sprinted into the ballroom and hit the dance floor, bopping away completely unfazed by the giants swinging dangerously around her.

Sumie and I were floored.  Was this energetic and gregarious little dancer really our daughter?  We eventually relented and joined her on the dance floor. 

Despite appearances and certain unshared preferences, I still do think Mimi's my child.  Her love of books, cars, and R2D2 is far too strong for there to be any doubt.  Sure, there will be differences along the way -some major, some minor, some devastating - but she'll always be my little girl.  Even it means I have to dance.