This morning my son came in from playing outside. He was covered in mud, feathers, and paint. "What are you doing out there?" I asked, amazed that he could get so dirty so soon.
"I'm making pet rocks and Indian hats," he replied.
"You're a mess!" I exclaimed.
"You are too," he countered.
"Go look in the mirror."
I marched over to the mirror and peered at my reflection. Sure enough, dried pancake batter was plastered in my hair.
I guess it's genetic.