We’re pretty certain that Baby A is a fledgling butch dyke, so we’re eager to have her learn, at least before she starts dating, that she ought to look at women’s eyes when they talk to her--not their boobs. I was trying to tell her yesterday, but all she did was lunge at me. It would’ve been scary if she wasn‘t ten times smaller than I am.
Baby A’s pretty versatile in the looks dept. When she wears gold ornaments and belly-button-baring cholis and pavadais, she’s a tote tewt princess. But put her in the determinedly-gender-neutral clothes we favor, and she mostly looks like (the older) Mark Wahlberg (see fledgling butch dyke ref above). And since I have no special fondness for said Wahlberg, it’s quite disconcerting when I’m feeding her half asleep, first thing in the morning, and look down to see his face at my breast.
Also, it’s probably what I get for watching the telly while preg, but just before she latches on, Baby A makes this “heh-heh” sound that sounds like George W. Or rather, Jon Stewart doing an imitation of the W., which makes it pretty giggly.
That picture of yourself in academic drag you took when people were consistently mistaking you for an undergraduate (because genes, but a...