Baby's got a smart mouth on her

My 14-year-old daughter and I were headed to school and work the other day when I looked down and noted that I'd dribbled toothpaste on my shirt. My daughter said, "I used to do that, too," paused a beat, and added, "But then I turned 7."

They say the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree, but they don't tell you it often hits you on the head. Again and again. So it goes as our children become us, in ways that can fill us with great pride and love, but sometimes, it must be admitted, deep chagrin and regret.

So, somehow I ended up siring a litter of sarcastic twerps. Is this nature or nurture? I don't know. Perhaps nature: A baby with strong sarcasm genes exits the womb brimming with smart-ass comments, deeply frustrated that he or she can't yet express them. "Hey, doc, the '70s called; they want their hairstyle back." Or: "yo, dad, while you're at the hospital gift shop getting me a balloon and an 'It's a Girl' sign, buy yourself some breath mints, OK?" I'm sure he thinks of several hilarious "your mom" jokes aimed at the baby in the next bassinet over in the nursery; or perhaps yearns to stick a haz-mat sign on his nursery mate's diaper. Perhaps she longs to offer up a cutting gibe about Apgar scores or cholostrom burps. And I'm quite certain infants have a bunch of great boob wisecracks rattling around in their heads. Like: "Hey, ma, the nipple goes here, not in my nose. Chrissake, I'm gonna starve with this amateur."

Someday scientists may discover this is what causes colic -- a backup of unexpressed sarcasm gurgling and burbling in babies' systems that can be relieved only with great jags of screaming and crying.

Fortunately, babies born with the sarcasm gene soon enough find some effective, albeit rather crude, outlets for it (though no cruder than what's found in the average Farrelly brothers' movie). Aiming a stream of pee in dad's face the moment he takes the diaper off is a classic, and projectile vomit is always a crowd-pleaser.

Or maybe it's not nature, but nurture. A child is born pure and untainted. In fact, after she sees the old man mugging in the nursery window, she tries desperately to switch wristbands with that baby in the next bassinet, but to no avail, and goes to a home where it's survival of the snarkiest.

Let's assume it's a little of nature and a little of nurture. If I could go back in time, I might calibrate my own wisecrackery just a tad, but it's a little late for that. So now it's coming back to bite me. As I get older, both my hearing and comic timing are fading, so instead of being a dispenser of sarcasm, I'm increasingly on the receiving end, the unwitting straight man to a bunch of merciless comedians from my own family.

By now, it often takes me 10 to 20 seconds to recognize and react to some gibe aimed at me. By the time I say, "hey, wait a sec," the kids have moved on. At this point, the only hope is the knowledge that one day I'll reach the stage where I don't get or even hear the jokes at all, by which point I'll be dribbling worse than toothpaste on my shirt, and, come to think of it, will be fair game for that haz-mat diaper sign gag, too, I suppose.