Blame it on family genetics

By PATTIE MIHALIK

So, no matter how much I longed for blue eyes as a kid, genetics dictated it was never going to happen.

We all know we can "blame" our physical appearance on genetics. But what about our mental predisposition?

Can family genetics predispose us to certain behavior patterns?

Most of us probably would say yes, at least to a certain extend.

There's at least some of my behavior that I'm blaming on family genetics, namely, my mother.

Her name was Ann but I was sometimes tempted to think of her as nervous Nellie.

If I would telephone her at a time when she wasn't expecting a call, she would answer by asking, "What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong?" I would counter. "I'm just calling to ask your opinion about something."

"OK, tell me what's wrong," she would retort, sure that I was calling because I had a problem or something was wrong. I could have been doing something as simple as seeking her advice when I was buying a new refrigerator.

There could have been dozens of reasons why I was calling. But the only thing that came to mind for my mother was that "something was wrong."

Nervous Nellie grew even more nervous when I was driving on the two-hour trip from my house to hers.

If I was supposed to be there by 2 o'clock, as soon as the clock passed 2 she started worrying. By the time I got there 20 minutes late, mom would meet me at the gate. "What happened to you?" she would ask. "I was sure something bad happened to you."

I would always explain very patiently, I thought, that the two-hour trip involved driving over mountain roads that were always foggy. Sometimes I had to drive especially slow because it was hard to see the road.

But if I explained about the mountain roads in that detail, the next time I was a few minutes late she would be in tears because she was sure my car fell off the mountain.

By now you know that I'm a slow learner. After that happened a few times, I should have known enough to give myself "wiggle room" when I told Mom what time to expect me.

My sister Cindy, who always did everything perfectly, knew enough to never be late. She always showed up exactly on time.

Even as a teenager Cindy was exemplary in being punctual. She always, always was home by her 11 o'clock curfew.

Except for one time, that was. When Cindy wasn't home by 11:15, my mother started saying, "I know something bad happened to her. She's never late."

By 11:30, I couldn't stop Mom from dialing the state police. Cindy walked in while mom was talking to the state police.

Turns out the parents who were picking up Cindy and her friends never showed up. That was way before every kid over the age of 10 had a cellphone so Cindy couldn't call home. By the time she found another ride home, my mother was beyond frantic.

"I was sure someone grabbed you," she sobbed.

Now, I don't know about you, but I was one of those kids who swore she would never be like her mother. The more nervous Nellie worried, the more I resolved I would never be like that.

And I wasn't, at least not when I was younger. But as I grow older genetics is taking me hostage. I'm turning into my mother.

When my daughter Maria isn't aware of the time and calls me after 11 at night, before I even answer the phone my heart is hammering. I'm sure the reason for the late call is because "something is wrong."

The first thing I say to my daughter isn't hello. "What's wrong?" I ask.

Well, now that we are in the wonderful age of cellphones, I delight in the way my daughters and I can send text messages. We like the fact that we don't have to be there to answer the phone. The text message will be waiting for us.

I stopped thinking text messaging was so glorious Sunday morning when my husband and I were leaving for church.

The text from my daughter Andrea simply said, "Call me as soon as you can." I quickly sent a text saying we wouldn't be home from church until 11:30.

The choir was extraordinarily heavenly that morning with guest performers from LA. I should have enjoyed it more but I sat there fretting because "something was wrong."

Andrea knows what time I go to church. She would never call like that unless something was wrong.

During our wonderful church service, I spent much of my time worrying about what calamity was upon us, going through one possibility after another in my mind.

Ironically, the Gospel message that day was about avoiding anxiety:

"Do not be anxious about anything. Put your trust in God. Which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life?"

Instead of worrying, I should have listened more closely to the Gospel. Andrea was only calling to ask about my foot pain.

But I have an excuse for worrying.

I'm blaming it on genetics.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.