It’s really obvious that my daughter is her father’s kid. I knew it from the 20 week ultrasound where we got a profile shot and realized she had her daddy’s pug nose. (Incedentally, this did not keep me from having dreams that she was a black baby four feet long when I birthed her.) The first thing we noticed when we saw her, just minutes old, was her olive skin tone and perfectly shaped mouth, all thanks to Daddy. She was perfect. She was everything you’d see if you pictured Mr. Flinger as a little girl. With hair.
This bothered me somewhat as all I got to contribute was a large scar on my belly, some wicked post partum depression and butt dimples. Yes, I have two dimples above my ass and now, so does my only child. I’m so proud to pass that on.
I know many families that always say, “Oh, she looks just like so-and-so” while the other side will say, “She’s a spitting image of you-know-who.” I hate to tell you this but one of you is wrong. Obviously the child looks more like her mother (or father) and you’re reaching for straws with “but her eyes look just like Great Aunt Jane’s.” Does anyone even remember Great Aunt Jane? I didn’t think so. Nice try.
I don’t have that luxury. When Mr. Flinger’s family goes on and on and on and on about how she looks JUST LIKE HE DID when he was little, I have to bite my lip because, well, she does. Mr. Flinger, with his long seventies flowing golden hair, really would’ve made a very pretty little girl. And now he does.
So when my family wants to contribute something in LB’s personage we stretch it a little far. “Oh, her personality is so like you. Oh, the way she rolls her eyes? SO TOTALLY YOU. Oh mah gah, did she just give me sass? That’s you!” Thanks. I gave my daughter her bitchiness. Add that to butt dimples and I’m a real genetic winner.
In light of the recent move, LB and I have been stuck inside a lot. Stuck inside with only each other. Stuck inside with NO OTHER PEOPLE AROUND. This means two things. One, we really need to make more friends. Fast. And two, we can’t stand each other for that long, just the two of us, alone, together. She starts climbing the walls and aching for some sort of external interaction. A person! A dog! A freakin’ squirrel! Anything! I’m right there with her. We sort of stand at the window and watch the world and pine for someone to play with while being all stuck in our own filth and packing boxes and attitude. I never realized how much alike we were. The whole “Daddy’s girl” image really had me thrown off because I didn’t peg her for having received much of anything from me (aside from said bitchiness and butt dimples). As it turns out, we are so much alike, it’s causing us to drive one another batty. This does not bode well for Jr. High or High school. I see arguments in my future, the very same ones I had with *MY* mother. The ones where she yells, “You just don’t get it! Do you?!” And I will. And I do. Because there is something in her that is so me, is so much me, that she’s going to be all spit and fire and raw emotions. And I will get it. I just don’t think she will, until she watches her own two year old and realizes, “You are just like your Grandma Flinger,” and I’ll add, “who is just like your mother.”
-- Update May 13, 2017 Now living in that Jr High time where I get it more than she knows. Returning to reflect. No. 7.