Sometimes it takes outside eyes to notice things about your kids. When you’re so close all the time, it can be hard to see the proverbial forest for the trees. That, and I think I just don’t see them the way other people do. I can’t, I’m their mother.
Prime example, the way every single person who sees Daniel says “wow, he looks exactly like M!” And while exactly may be an exaggeration (Daniel has my nose, while Rebecca has M’s), it must be a fairly strong resemblance since almost everyone says the same thing. Me? I don’t see it. Like, at all. Well, OK, once I saw a picture of M as a toddler, and then I definitely saw the resemblance. But the M that I know now? Nope. He just looks like M to me. And Daniel just looks like Daniel.
With Rebecca in the looks department, there’s less consensus. M says she looks a little like me, my mom thinks she looks like M’s sister. And I think she’s just funny as hell, and her eye and hair color change depending on the day’s light.
Last night, though, I was talking to a friend of ours on the phone and describing Rebecca’s current mobility status. She loves to walk while holding on to both of your hands. If you take one of your hands away (wrench it out of her fingers), she’s perfectly capable of walking and holding onto only one of your hands, but she hates it. She would much, much rather have both. I don’t think she wants to walk until she’s totally comfortable with the idea, and she was the same way with crawling. She took her sweet time mastering each little component, and though everyone was certain she was mere moments away from crawling, she worked on it for a solid six weeks before finally doing it on her own.
My friend just laughed. “Oh my god,” she said, “she’s just like her dad!” And it’s so true. M fears change. Change involves newness and risk. What if it’s worse than what I already have or already know how to do? Better to stick with the devil you know. It took him over a year to buy a new car, several years to change jobs, and we won’t even talk about how long it took him to get around to proposing to yours truly.
So, M, there you go. No more joking about the milkman. They’re definitely yours.