Like father, like son

A mallard duck looking at a camera lens.

Last year I wrote a post about how I’m becoming my Dad and how that, despite the weird foibles I was starting to acquire, I accepted it as a good thing. Now, the same thing seems to be happening with the next generation as Dylan is slowly turning into me. If I were him though, I wouldn’t be quite so chuffed. Poor lad!

It’s weird really; he looks much more like Kate but is a proper little mini me – well, in terms of the traits of mine I’m less proud of anyway.

It’s like having a strange kind of time-warping mirror thrust in my face. I’m seeing some of my most cringeworthy attributes being mimicked in miniature by my unfortunate son.

He’s gained some of my better qualities too, of course. People have said I’m creative and a good communicator on LinkedIn recommendations, for example – so it must be true! – and Dylan definitely has those skills in the proverbial locker. So I hope they compensate for some of the embarrassing ones that are to follow.

He’s definitely got my obsessive streak for starters. He’s very precise with his toys and always knows exactly where his things are. Everything has to be in order – toys, books, the sequences of his routines… the lot. This is definitely my fault.

As a child – okay, okay – for as long as I can remember, I’ve been exactly the same. Then there’s the Lady Macbeth-like urge to wash his hands after the slightest contact with anything that could remotely be described as dirty.

As a young child, I couldn’t bear my mits getting grubby. I don’t mind now, but am still overzealous when it comes to visiting the sink. As is little man with demanding baby wipes. Oh dear.

He’s also a very sensitive little soul. When I was little, there was an advert for some kind of insurance service in which the three ornate ducks of increasing sizes that we were supposed to believe that every home had, fell off the wall. This commercial was guaranteed to upset me. There would be tears every time.

When Dylan sees any similar form of mild peril on the TV he is exactly the same. It starts with a concerned countenance and sudden absence of his usual cheerful demeanour. If it gets to the point where he utters the phrase “Oh dear…” that’s it.

He’ll be inconsolable for a good few minutes. Things falling over, characters bumping into each other, cake being destroyed… that kind of thing. I’m with him on the last point, mind. Watching The Adventures of Abney and Teal has become something of a lottery.

So, Dylan, I’m sorry you’re inheriting the characteristics of mine that I’m less fond of, but at least you don’t have my nose.

Do you ever see any of your unflattering personality traits in your kids?


  1. Sarah Miles

    Ha! It’s freaky when you see yourself in them, especially the bits you rather they hadn’t inherited! Much as tell my kids not to be fussy eaters I was/am just the same! And littlest seems to have inherited my, ahem, quick temper. I like to think I have mellowed somewhat, but I was just the same as her, feisty little redhead – my way or the highway!

  2. Emma

    Oh yes and those are the very things I find annoying! My only daughter can be contrary and moody and that’s when she does my head in. It’s also the very time that my husband laughs and says she’s most like me- humph!

  3. Tom Briggs

    Thanks everyone! Thought I’d be in good company there, but it’s nice to get it confirmed!


    My wife and I are forever comparing our children to ourselves and marvelling at where they are turning out different to both of us. Our oldest son is also very particular – bordering on OCD at times – and takes great pride in being tidy and organised. It also means he’s keen to help out with dusting and cleaning, so that’s no bad thing. I just need to encourage him to wash my car properly … 🙂

  5. Emma Oliver

    Found this amusing Tom, amazing really how they follow in our footsteps- looks wise or personality. And btw, he cld still grow in to that nose yet (lol)!

  6. Pingback: Why we should teach boys it's okay to cry | Diary of the Dad

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