Och, you’ve got to love that modest wee lamb, Heather Mills. The ex-wife of Paul McCartney has been wittering forth on the extent of their parental influences in bringing up their daughter Beatrice.
Heather said, ‘I think she’s got the best of both of us. We’re both very musical, I taught her the saxophone because her father can’t read music so I do all the music teaching.’
Ah, the passive-aggressive triumph of claiming glory while pointing out another’s failings. Cue theme tune for musical Heather’s very own version of an Andrew Lloyd Webber classic – Catty.
In a further barb to her ex, Heather went on to say that Beatrice believes ‘she is ninety-nine per cent me’.
I’m not judging, but personally speaking, achieving that kind of parent/child similarity isn’t on my list of family aspirations.
Dear sons, if you ever read this, let me say right here and now, that I sincerely hope you never become ninety-nine per cent me. I have a gazillion flaws and they’re all mine, so please get your own.
There’s no doubt that my boys have inherited a couple of my characteristics. Fourteen-year-old Low the Elder is a dedicated athlete who loves a party, a laugh, and rarely comes through the front door without five pals in tow. His priority list is sport, pals, food. Swap sport for ‘impulsive online shopping’ and his shiny new parachute (eBay £99.99) would drop him on my side of the personality fence.
At thirteen, son number two is a dedicated bookworm – a big tick in the ‘got this from his mother’ box. Other than that, he’s laid-back, chilled out and naturally happy in his own skin – all traits that are in direct contrast to the fact that I’m more highly strung than Billy Connolly’s banjo. If musical talent is genetic, Low the Younger’s skills on the saxophone would suggest I had a one-night stand with Kenny G. And I can assure you I’m not responsible for his vocal talent, given that I couldn’t hold a tune in Noel Gallagher’s Tupperware box.
I recently read the wise words of a retiring headmaster, who claimed that too many parents were damaging their children’s development with their narcissistic endeavours to turn their children into mini-me’s.
In our house, that’s already a physical impossibility, given that my offspring are six feet tall. But anatomical anomalies aside, the list of attributes I hope my children do not inherit is long.
Obviously I’d prefer them to avoid two of my most prevalent features: my rubbish metabolism and my fondness for a pudding.
I pray they don’t develop my capacity for relentless worry. Right now, I’m worrying they’ll get my worry gene. And don’t get me started on my catastrophising, otherwise my blood pressure might increase, I could faint, fall to the ground, setting off an earth tremor that could wipe out the Western world.
Which brings me to my chronic hypochondria. I’d tell you more about it but I’m too busy googling the symptoms and treatment for ‘high blood pressure and fainting’.
I’m impatient. Intolerant. Shallow. When riled, my choice of language makes Gordon Ramsay look like Mary Berry. On a Sunday. At church.
And decades of juggling house, work and family have left me way too far along the scale of dogmatic control freakery. Why? Because I said so.
So creating mini-me’s? No thanks. Boys, my advice is to be unique, be different, be yourself. However, if you do experience moments of worry, hypochondria, or second helpings of pudding, there are flippers on eBay that are perfect for the very occasional splash in your mother’s gene pool.