Your shoutMum to one Isadora Bennett thinks all this insistence on fanning the male ego is a load of tosh. My labour was not a pleasant affair. It was not life-affirming, nor was it a 'I am connected to nature in a wonderful and meaningful way' moment. It was more like 'I am connected to an epidural that doesn't work, so please pull this baby out of me now way' and it lasted more than 30 hours. So when I finally had my daughter in my arms, the last thing on my mind was 'Ohmigod, I'd better reassure my husband that he is the father'. All I wanted was a cold glass of Coke and a Mars bar. As soon as the rellies started pouring into the derisible private hospital room we had, the examination of features began. (After the digit counting, of course.) "She's got dark hair just like Stephen!" "Look at those eyes - I can see Stephen in them!" (How utterly clever of you… I didn't realise the reflection was that sharp…) "The set of her mouth is just like Stephen's!" And this was just my family. When the in-laws arrived, the same occurred. It seemed, after the preliminary kisses had been given and the "My, don't you look well?" comments while trying to avoid looking at my panda eyes and bloated face had passed, the real inspection began. And it continued for days. Weeks. Even months. It still goes on, to be fair. I've just learned to tune it out. The conversation almost invariably turned to how much Daisy looked like her dad. They let me claim responsibility for the blue eyes, but only because ALL babies have blue eyes when born and they would probably turn brown like her dad's anyway, blue being the recessive gene and all. After another afternoon of spot the similarities, I turned to my husband while washing up the tea cups (guests never make their tea nor do the washing-up afterwards, regardless of what the parenting manuals say), and said, "Why does everyone constantly look for similarities to you when they see Daisy? It would be nice if they could admit to a little bit of me. I mean, I was the one who pushed her out of a tiny orifice. I've even got the scars to prove it!" Stephen just shrugged and, as he finished drying the last cup, casually remarked, "Well, they're going to, aren't they?" "But why?" I persisted. "So they can be sure that I'm the dad, of course." Yep, you heard me right. My husband, who swore to honour, love and protect me, was telling me, more or less, that his family's insistence on finding his nose on Daisy's face was a way of reassuring themselves that I wasn't a slut. As you can tell from the mere fact that I am writing this piece, I haven't forgiven him for such an appalling comment. I'm storing it for any future awkward family get-togethers. In time, some people started to *shock horror* think that my daughter might actually resemble me! Gasp! The in-laws even came round to this way of thinking, remarking in disappointed tones, "Oh, her nose is a bit too tiny to be like Stephen's, on second thought." Just as well, else you wouldn't get the bottle near it… So sorry, scientists. Yours is not a particularly wonderful nor important discovery in the grand scheme of things. I'd be hard-pressed to find a woman who goes around insisting to all and sundry that their baby does look like their dad, else they could be threatened with the proverbial 'The lady doth protest too much'. Where to next?
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