I’m always a sucker for scientific small talk. At a “Baby Housewarming” (don’t ask), I was talking to a woman about her little boy. He was a very quiet child and slightly reluctant to wade into the baby melee. “Yes”, she said, “he’s very shy, but both his Dad and I are as well.”  I don’t know much about behavioural genetics, so don’t know whether or not you inherit social skills. Is there a Wallflower allele? A Social Butterfly mutation? Future Science Tuesday post, perhaps.

If there is a gene for sociability, Z’s got the Social Butterfly variant. He doesn’t get it from me. Once I get to a party or a dinner or drinks, I usually do OK. I just dread the thought of trying to interact with my fellow man, have done since I was small. That’s one of the downsides of moving country every few years – you get comfortable with a social group and then take off. At the new destination you have to start again. It’s actually been a lot easier since we moved Down Under. The Australians, for the most part, are outgoing and vivacious and draw you out of your shell whether you want to be drawn or not. Having a baby, and friends with babies, means that you have an easy topic of conversation at most social outings.The boy seems to be finding it easy as well.

Making friends at Z’s age seems to be very tactile. I guess if you can’t use verbal communication, then your hands are the next best alternative. The problem is that these kind of friendship gestures run the gamut from “Aww, isn’t that cute” to moves that would be illegal in the World Wrestling Federation. I’ve opted for the former for the photos in this post, but Z seems to prefer The Bushwhacker type of interaction - eye gouging, face scratching or just the good old-fashioned Double Gutbuster. On multiple occasions this weekend, at multiple kid parties I’d hear a kid screaming, glance in that direction and see Z – looking pleased with himself – on top of the screaming child. Nobody says anything, polite company and all, but as I’m pulling my child off theirs I’m pretty sure they’re making judgements on my parenting skills.I wonder if “bullying” is genetic. He gets that from his Mum.

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Neither the title nor the song from which it comes has anything to do with this post. But I’ve been playing this less racist version of the Rolf Harris classic all weekend long. I challenge you not to get it stuck in your head.

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