With five of my six children having my husband’s hair color, it’s automatic when we’re out in public. “Wow, they all look like their father, huh?”
I mean, how does that happen? Hair color equals dad? Really? Okay, well, I have Italian olive skin, he’s got hubby’s pale Scottish skin. I have dark birth marks and moles, he’s got one gigantic light brown birthmark under his arm the size of Texas, just like my husband has on his chest. I’ve got dark straight hair, he’s got curly strawberry blonde hair like hubby.
Alright, already! I get it. My genes obviously weren’t dominant in any way shape or form. My genes are wimpy. They forgot to eat their Wheaties, or drank too little coffee that day.
Suffice it to say, there are obvious reasons people say he looks like him. I mean, I’m not discounting that fact, but c’mon, you don’t see my big eyes? My toothy smile? Some of ’em have my nose? No?!
Well, on Super M’s first day of school, his teacher took this picture. Look! PROOF he looks like me! (Right?! RIGHT!? Tell me he looks like me, lie to me if you have to!)
Take that, hubster! Nyah, nyah!
(P.S. If you can believe it, I’m a “racist” for having written this post. Nice, huh?)
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