A Matter of Taste

Right now I'm watching the film Topkapi. This 1964 Peter Ustinov adventure comedy is one of my favorites. I could watch this one and fifty others repeatedly with no diminished delight. I wonder, though, will WT give one solid damn about Topkapi, or any of my other favorite movies, or any of my other favorite anythings? Surely my tastes are not replicated in my genes and will not be picked up instinctively by the next generation. It's a bit arrogant even to wish that they take after me, to predispose B to an interest in soccer and A to international affairs when they might care more for baseball and theater. But can I help it? Can any parent be so hands-off with their kids' upbringing that they don't subconsciously steer them towards their own preferences? The answer is no--you dip them in the Karl pool but let them get out when and where they please. You let them walk out on Topkapi during the climactic jewel heist scene, or even during the opening credits. (Actually I recommend this to everyone as the first 20 minutes are rather tedious). The lesson of this story is that I may have zero in common with my kids except the last name, the number of knees, and the desire to get into two different lines at the movies. But all that matters is that we're in the same car (or bus or train, someday, hopefully) on the way home.