THERE'S one genetic quality that my kids have definitely inherited from Modern Dad.
I like to call it the Fearless Fred Gene.
I may have also referred to it once or twice as the Complete Idiot Gene, but for now let's just pretend that Modern Dad doesn't do things that make me say that.
The Fearless Fred Gene is what made my baby She-Devil a jumper.
From the time she was a tiny little dot, she wouldn't get down from something if she could jump off it instead.
The couch, the coffee table, the top bunk in a hotel room.
And she very rarely checked to see if there was anything dangerous below her, or whether there was even anyone there to catch her.
She'd just jump.
Which is how we ended up at the Emergency Department getting her head glued back together before she even turned one.
The Boy, who currently sits about equal parts Cautious Charlie to Fearless Fred depending on whether Modern Dad is around egging him on or not, was not a jumper.
But he was a climber.
Even before he could walk, he was climbing.
We had a clothes dryer in the kitchen that I found him on top of more than once.
He would climb from the floor to the couch to the window sill lickety split, and we had to keep the dining chairs up against the wall rather than around the table to try to discourage him from making his way up. I even caught him once scaling our two-door fridge like a tiny mountaineer to try to get the lock off the top of the handles.
This is why when people comment on my grey hair I tell them I've earned every single one.
And it seems that El Baberino is determined to send me completely white, as she follows in her brother's climbing footsteps.
She is at that age where she is not content to sit in her chair and eat her meals; each one has become a sort of progressive dinner around the room as I vainly attempt to get more in her mouth than on the floor.
Thank goodness for dogs to clean up floor breakfasts.
She likes to eat standing up at the coffee table with The Big Kids.
And then she likes to eat sitting on the coffee table and trying to throw The Big Kids' food off.
She climbs the couch so as to have a better angle to throw things. She climbs our bed, or tries to but gets a bit stuck.
She tries to climb into the bath, up the washing pile and onto the dog. All day, every day.
So trying to teach her to get down safely has pretty much become my full time pastime.
But if I see her jumping, I'm just going to cut all the legs off the furniture.
There's a new bite to sibling rivalry
WE'RE in the middle of Tooth Wars here between the Boy and the She-Devil.
Although she is 7, she has only lost two baby teeth, and she hates it.
She reckoned kids made fun of her in grade 1 because she hadn't lost any teeth yet, and look they probably did.
Kids will make fun of other kids for pretty much anything, I've come to realise.
I'm stoked she is older than her teeth - she's more capable of looking after the adult ones properly than if she got them at four or five.
But she's still desperate to lose some more.
The Boy has lost a few more, 4 on the bottom and 3 on the top. But he can't resist a bit of competition with his sister.
Every time she thinks she has a wobbly tooth, he does too.
Even if he doesn't, he says he does just to rev her up.