It Lives Here

I have a daughter. A product of my husband and myself. This thing we're supposed to feel quantifyingly attracted too. Don't get me wrong-- we do. We're typical... would die for her, kill myself if she died, yada yada yada. It's just that most of the time I don't relate that she really IS my daughter. Most of the time she just seems like this short funny person that lives in the house with us. Put here to make us laugh.

But tragically, there are times when I can look at her and know she's mine. She'll smile and I'll think "Holy Crap, Kid! That's my smile", or my hair, or my expression. Just such an event occur ed last night as she was flirting with her dad-- something that used to be my domain, but I'm finding out that I'm losing to a two year old. As she lounged on the side of the couch, her body sideways with one foot on top of the other, a little flirty grin on her face while she tried to convince her daddy that if she didn't see the next episode of Teletubbies the world would end, I was taken aback at how much she looks like me.

All I wanted to say was "Don't worry Sweetie, mommy's got the plastic surgeons on speed dial, the eye doctor on pager, and I hear they've come out with a really good pimple cream. It'll be okay."