One of the first questions well-meaning (I’m a big fan of the benefit of the doubt) people ask new parents is who the kid looks like. While they’re looking at the kid. And you. And they know the other parent.
As if you have some special insight into what the kid they’re looking at looks like that they do not possess.
True confession: I have felt from shortly after the moment she popped out of my lady bits that my kid looks like me. Having had my mom here egging me on about it only solidified my belief. Granted, my mom also has a dog in this race as I look pretty much exactly like her.
Well here in the microcosm of the village, the teams were split down the middle from the get-go, just like they were when the discussion was whether I was having a boy or girl. Back then, everyone had a theory based on the way I was carrying, the way I had put on the baby weight, how much heartburn I had, etc.
Surprise surprise—half of them were right.
But back to M’s visage. As of late we have had several defectors from the P side, insisting that M is changing as she gets older and looking more like me. You know why?
Because she’s fattening up.
For those who haven’t spent extensive time in Italy, you should know that Italian women are rather famous among the expat women crowd for their blunt declarations about one’s weight (gain) to one’s face, often bringing it up out of the blue (in my experience), throwing in a comment that hits you like pigeon sh*t from a ledge above your head that you knew you shouldn’t have walked under (minus the good luck it allegedly brings). SPLAT.
Call it refreshingly honest or lack of hangups about weight, whatevs, but some of us don’t like to be reminded of our expanding arse while we chow down on a gorgeous, flaky, Nutella-filled cornetto with our morning cappuccino.
Not that that’s ever happened to me.
You should also know that P is a proverbial beanpole, weighing in at probably a buck thirty-five, whereas I have had childbearing hips from way before my childbearing time (been waiting 35+ years for an excuse!). So yeah, a fuller face would definitely tip the scales my way.
So on the question of who M looks like, when M was a newborn, I was diplomatic (“Too early to tell!”). I really wanted to respond, “il postino” (the postman), but I already knew the blank stares I’d receive in return all too well.
Now that M is indeed filling out, though, I’m embracing my inner Italian woman after more than a decade here as I proudly point to M’s munchable chipmunk cheeks and chunkalunk thighs, as I proclaim to all the world, “ME ME MEEEEEEEEE!”
That kind of adorabubble don’t come from no stinkin’ beanpole.*
* Please note that if M ends up looking like P or a lovely mixture of the two of us, I will also be overjoyed–I wouldn’t have picked him as a procreation partner had I not found him adorabeanpole.