Hazards of chromosomes

Posted: November 22, 2010 in don't fight it
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

There is existing proof that though we all understand the idea behind genetic coding; ie. the fact that Mommy chucks in her 23 bits and Daddy chucks in his 23 bits, then stir in different positions and lubricants, ferment for nine months and WHALA a genetically traceable offspring appears.  Fine.  Got that.

But why then does the Kurt Vonnegut sense of HAZARD arrive.  I mean this in all seriousness and it is most evident in a house of four offspring who have to get out of bed.

This is not an outrageous demand or imposition.  To leave the cocoon of innocent (?) sleep and venture into the known breathing world.   WHY is that so difficult to achieve?

Whoever or however the 46 chromosome/ bits were mixed something was shaken, stirred but then the ‘wake up concept’ was ever so neatly distorted or even hurled into the great garburator of desirable traits.  At least that seems to be the situation in my current zone. My hosts are worth further study, so with magnifying glass or ‘mushi megane’ in Japanese, which literally means insect glasses, I shall observe them further.

With four caterpillars to release into their individual butterfly-dom, it becomes an epic journey worthy of National Geographic or some search for the Yeti or sasquatch or even a parking spot near the mall entrance.

It’s baffling.  These four cocoons are all related, same mixers (at least I hope), same blending etc., then why do I find such random results.

Caterpillar one has no internal alarm system whatsoever. Not only would she not wake up if a bomb goes off – WHEN she finally does wake up she IS a bomb going off – total panic, hysteria.  It’s suddenly everyone else’s fault she’s late.  No time to eat. Yes, sleeping in your clothes is a form of ironing and ‘why brush I can chew gum’.  Bash, crash and out the door, still dressing in the drive way on her journey  – butterfly gone.

Caterpillar two is so much more refined and reluctant.  She slithers from the bed and does her daily toilet duties and then mysteriously denies the day exists and reverses into the cocoon.  Very crafty and often missed in the morning thunder provided by caterpillar one.  The smaller body hides neatly prepped and ready to face the day but blissfully unaware there even IS a day.  When finally delivered to the work space she arrives gorgeous, but catatonic until noon.

Caterpillar three is bliss incarnate.  Creeping like a spider’s web spun on morning dew she flits through the bathing, feeding ritual like some phantom.  Upon a search her bed is made, clothes folded, not a sign of her exists.  Did she come home?  Did she sneak out last night?  Then thankfully a fresh dish in the dishwasher is found. Aha! The phantom exists.

Caterpillar four.  You gatta love’em.  Who else would?  Up at the crack of dawn scaring the Bejesus out of the roosters.  Gone for a jog and work out, back by seven, fed and firing into the next face-on challenge by 7:30.  Caterpillars #1 & #2  rarely meet #4, this is a good thing.

So how did this come out of the Mom v Dad cocktail?  Each morning I’m baffled and this is what makes me believe that HAZARD exists and somewhere up there, someone is running a crap shoot on the chromosomes!

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