Winston Churchill said, “All babies look like me.” Of course, that isn’t true. All babies look like Nathan Lane. Just picture him freshly born, snug in a pastel blanket, a knit cap on his head and his mouth opened ready to belt out the opening number for The Producers. Your grandchild, my grandchild, Little Nathan.
Forty eight hours later, the baby is home, looking less like Nathan and more like nobody. Still, the bickering continues.
“The baby looks just like me.”
“You? Where? That’s my chin.”
“I’ll show you my baby pictures. “Pictures don’t lie.”
We hear how desperate we sound, but it’s vital this go around that a baby resemble us. We need a crisp version of ourselves to recharge our batteries. We’re entitled. After all, we started this clan. We got the generation ball rolling and we ought to be rewarded. We will humbly accept a clone.
As a young mom I didn’t care much if my children looked like me. It wasn’t a big issue with my friends, either. As a grandma, though, now we’re thinking legacy. We want to be remembered. Our clef chin and even our weird lazy eye will continue on in another human being, proof that we existed, morbid as it sounds. Someday, someone in our family will point to a picture of us and say,
“You don’t remember Grandma? You look just like her! Yeah, well, that’s not a good picture.”