A mixed box of [white] chocolates

Since it’s the weekend, and I’m not entirely sure how many of you are actually STILL sitting in front of your computers during the official-unofficial start of summer, so I’ll keep it light.

I type this post next to a blob of unwashed clothes in my closet. I’m hiding in here because I don’t want my super-bionic-eared-and-able-to-register-sounds-only-a-dog- can-hear 11 month old daughter to be disturbed by my incessant pecking. It took 3 hours, 15 seconds, 4 milliseconds, and 103 microseconds to put her to sleep.

Thinking of my daughter and other kids makes me reflect on my supposed literacy of genetics before me and the hubby started shooting out the progeny. I mistakenly thought that because my genes are predominately African American, our children would come out like little chocolate drops. I pictured my husband, with one cocoa child in the crook of his arm, and another coffee-hued babe holding his hand, would look like a foster father. We had a good laugh about it.

Then the first one, the second, and finally the third little Karazin came out looking pretty darned…white-ish. I guess those Deutschland genes of his proved that once again, Europeans feel like they need to dominate everything.

Now when I breast feed my daughter in public and people do a double take when they see a little white hand flailing about, I just tell them I’m the wet nurse. Freaks them out every time.

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