I’ve been told it’s quite common not to be able to recognize your own features in your children, and up until last Christmas I’d been so fuzzy on the subject that I had convinced myself that Emma must look like me simply because she has the EXACT same hair coloring I did at that age. I know, it’s genius, right?
Then I turned the page of an album I was rebooking as a Christmas present and had my breath stolen upon seeing a shot of Travis at, I don’t know, five? Six? Doesn’t really matter, because Saint Xerox, SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE HIM. As more than a few folks had gently tried to suggest. Since birth.
Travis has mentioned many times that Sarah has expressions that remind him very much of my mother, and many people make that comment on pictures of Ashley. I’ve haven’t seen this so much myself, a fact that makes me a little sad, as shouldn’t I be able to see my own mother there if other people can?
BUT, and here’s where I up the ante and go out concealed – my whole life, everyone has always remarked at how much my sister, Christie, looks like my mom. And by high school, people used to confuse me for Christie all the time. It even happened once on this blog.
This picture is of Ashley, who is throwing down a Christie grin so hard it hits me like the sharp stab of a certain someone’s plastic, pink umbrella in 1979 (I have not forgotten that, missy).
So there I have it. Unmistakable proof that my daughter looks a little like me. And my sister. And my mom.
But don’t be fooled, self. This kid is a brand new human being. And although I may have a hard time seeing it in her face, it’s been clear for quite some time that she’s got the brains of all four of us combined.
*Although, on a side note, this photo also illustrates the apparent joy she recently discovered for putting bags and pillowcases over her head and walking into walls during a trip TO THE BEACH. So. I may not be in as much trouble as I initially feared.
Naps here have been a thing of the past for oh, gosh. Three months? Six? That’s one of those things that I really wish I’d written down when it happened, but I hung on to the hope that “My God, they have to sleep ONE OF THESE DAYS, right?” so long that it all got hazy and confused and all I know now is that they do, in fact, still need them. I’ve just finally accepted that 1) trying to make them isn’t going to work and 2) none of the grownup things on my list are going to get done. Ever. So, most days I do what I can to keep them entertained by anything but the TV and let them learn how insanely tired they feel by 5pm. The risks include hairpin tantrums from them and me, but the benefits include moments like this, when they look up and say, “Carry me?” And also that they are dead asleep 2 minutes after we kiss their heads goodnight.
Today we are all sick. It started on Sunday with Emma’s runny nose. As it slowly wore the rest of us down, a very particular set of blankets began to appear yesterday. Blankets they’d never used before. Not their loveys. Not their backups. No, at some point they opened a drawer in Emma’s dresser and specifically chose these. Aunt Margie made them last year before she passed away, and this may be the DayQuil talking, but I like to think this is some sort of transcendent sign that people need her love even when they’ve never met her.