Baby C visited Greg’s office today. She donned her “My Dad’s a Geek” onesie for the occasion – pandering for a laugh, no doubt. I covered it with an adorable ducky sweater set, which meant that if anyone wanted to read her top, we had to lift up her bib and sweater. I squelched an image of her doing the same thing 18 years from now at Mardi Gras. She’s my daughter, after all, and collecting beads was never my priority. (It must be admitted that my taste veers towards the Puritanical).
Then again, if looks are any indicator, Baby C won’t take after me one bit. All of Greg’s colleagues commented on her strong paternal resemblance, which – frankly – is all I’ve heard about since she was born. Even the woman who cleans our house, who knows Greg only from the picture on my dresser, told me in halting English that “Baby has face of father.” As I left Greg’s office, Karen summed up the past three months of comments. “It was nice of you to be the carrier of Greg’s genes for nine months."