How I Know The Girl Is Mine

Inevitably after the numerous struggles of pregnancy and the horror of labour (and OH the HORROR!) the girl is born the spitting image of her father.

Apparently, a child resembling the father most is an evolutionary throwback, the baby strongly resembles the father so the father will recognise the child as his and will provide for it. So, the choice is to look like your father or be abandoned to die…you can’t fault the logic.

In this instance, this is a good thing. My husband is all cute button nose, big lips and long black lashes to counter my awkward odd shaped nose, thin school-ma’am lips (appropriate) and narrow, squinty eyes. I don’t mind at all that she looks like her father.

However more and more she demonstrates traits that I know have come directly from me, and they mostly revolve around flatulence.

She farts often. I fart often. I’d pass it off as a leftover from pregnancy (and oh MAN was that bad) but nope, it’s always been thus, just ask my husband through the fog.
She lets off proper cheek-slappers that seem to reverberate around the room. In one of our first mummy/baby massage classes we had to introduce ourselves, and when it came to us, right on cue, she let one rip. It was an honest introduction.
She gabbles on and on about nothing, and I smile and nod like I have a clue what she’s on about. At least it’s cute when she does it.
Her farts smell like something died and then hung around a hot roadside for a few days, next to an open sewer. Her father farts fairy dust in the daintiest poof of rose-scented sparkles. I’m undeniably to blame here. (Blame though? Surely the ability to clear a room on cue like Pumba could come in handy at times. She’ll thank me when she’s older).
She finds utterly banal things fascinating. Like the ceiling light fitting in the lounge, our bedroom curtains, the walls etc. I enjoy painting walls and putting away the shopping is the single most thrilling thing I can do in a day.
The girl has a big bum. It comes with the territory when you’re in the >99.6^th percentile but it’s something we share. It took me nearly 25 years to learn to love my bum, I’m hoping she doesn’t suffer the same fate. It’s all cute and squishy, I’ll love it on her behalf if I must.
Brown eyes, I think. It’s a little difficult at this stage to say for sure as her eyes have chameleon-esque colour changing abilities from one day to the next, but I’m pretty sure they’ll settle on brown. Score 1 for genetics (Her Dad’s are blue, it was 50/50 but yeay team Mummy!).
Finding trousers that fit her properly around the bum and thighs is an issue, we go for the baggy kind. See point 6.
She gets sweaty feet. Her dad appears not to sweat, ever, he merely glows. I really don’t know how he pulls it off, whereas I have ruined many shoes through stink alone. Even the cats scarper when I take my slippers off and the stench infects the whole room. Lush. Her feet don’t smell yet, but she doesn’t wear shoes yet…
Smacking herself in the head, accidentally choking herself by shoving her fingers too far into her mouth, scratching the crap out of her face. I injure myself on a near daily basis, I accidentally scraped my arm quite painfully on the remnant of a bolt lock on a door frame, and then did the same thing again about 20 minutes later, on the very same arm. The only difference is that I have control over my motor skills and she doesn’t. Which just makes me a bit of an idiot.

These are just the things I have seen so far, but I look forward to seeing more of my foibles pass to my little one so we will have things to lament over when she’s older and crying ‘I’m turning into my mum’, just like I turned into mine.

That’s no bad thing either.

N xxx

Taken from my blog: www.notjustamumma.co.uk