While going through my mom's cedar chest, looking for baby things and wedding things for my sister, I found my photo album from the first year of my life. I brought it home with us after the Christmas holiday, and spent a little time going through it with my husband, who was a very cute baby. In fact, many people referred to him as a "Gerber baby" and thought he should model. Of course, this hasn't gone to his head at all.
"Wow, you were bald."
"Yeah, I know."
"No, I mean really bald! You didn't have any hair at all. No eyebrows, even. And you were as white as a ghost! And the way your mom dressed you, people must have wondered if you were a boy. All those striped shirts and jeans and the Batman sweatshirt and funky little sunglasses. Nothing pink anywhere."
"Yeah, she wasn't into the frills back in the early 70's."
"Huh. Boy. Still bald. Bald. Bald. Bald, but happy! Still bald..."
It went on like this for a while.
Then he got to a picture of me at age 2 1/2, in my Christmas dress, my blonde hair in carefully curled ringlets to my shoulders.
"Oh, you got better."
Thanks for that.
So, needless to say, I've been a little worried that our child would be born looking more like me than him, and I would spend the first year of her life explaining that yes, she is a girl, and no, she is not Sinead O'Baby, but will eventually grow some hair, like I did.
Then I read this.
No worries, then. Heartburn, check.
(Thank God for Gaviscon.)