A Head Case, Pirate, and Superior Genes

Momservation: A proud mother lets her children’s accomplishments speak for themselves. A proud father tells everyone they get it from him.

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My son is a head case and my daughter is a pirate. I couldn’t be prouder. I think they get it from me. My husband is trying to take all the credit.

Before you agree the whole bunch of us got the nutty gene, that would be for our son Logan’s athletic skills and our daughter Whitney’s acting chops.

At age 11, Logan is leading his competitive soccer team in heading the ball into the goal for a score. He’s probably had a dozen so far. He’s made plenty with his feet too, but the talent and agility needed at that age to guide a corner kick into the net is awe inspiring even to his mother – this coming from a woman who almost didn’t name her kid Logan because I didn’t think it sounded like a name the President of the United States would have. 

One of Logan's first header goals of the soccer season

Then we’ve got Little Miss Whit. At age four she was selected for a solo singing part as a dove in the Christmas pageant. Not for her singing talent, mind you, but her chutzpah. It has served her well leading her to crowd pleasing performances each year of the school talent show, a solo part as a singing crocodile in the school play, and just yesterday a spunky audition that won her the part of Goldie the Hunn, “the envy of all girl pirates,” in a traveling theatre show of Treasure Island (put on by Missoula Children’s Theatre). I knew the world was going to have to look out for her early on and am so relieved to have it channeled creatively.

A star crocodile is born. Whitney's encore performance will be as pirate Goldie the Hunn


These two fabulous little people, who Hubby claims inherited his stunning good looks and I insist received my superior intelligence, have and continue to exceed our expectations. And it is so fun to watch.

So this right here, right now, is what I imagined parenting would be like when Hubby and I originally “hit the workbench” in the name of creating offspring that would carry our genes forward to greatness.


It makes all those years of sinking hopes when you witnessed them stick peas up their nose, stuff rocks in their diapers, eat tanbark and snails, and bop their buddy over the head for no apparent reason with a shovel seem like just a minor glitch from Hubby’s side of the family.

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