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FacebookI have never looked into the faces of my children and seen any resemblance to me. When my kids were younger, I remember bringing them to a Blockbuster’s or something to pick out videos. My two oldest were running around like maniacs, knocking over displays, while I held my youngest, who was having a tantrum of some sort. I caught the eye of another mother, who said, “Oh, bad day of babysitting, huh?”
I nearly died.
Here I was working myself silly, and my kids looked like they belonged to someone else.
It never really bothered me, though, that my children didn’t resemble me. I have a sister whose face is the mirror image of mine. Even though she is 2 years younger and about 5 inches shorter than me, people always asked me if I had a twin when we were in college. So it’s not like I’ve grown up feeling as though I couldn’t find my face anywhere else in the world, because I could always find it in my sister (and in my mother as well).
As I have gotten older, my looks have changed dramatically — particularly the shape of my face. My features are very chiseled-looking now; where once my face was round, it is now long and thin — just like my father’s. When I look at childhood pictures of myself, my face is round and full; I look nothing like that anymore. It’s so easy to forget that I was that face so long ago — it feels so far away, and I never have anything to remind me of it.
Then, just a few weeks ago, I caught a glimpse of my youngest daughter, and for a moment, I saw the me I used to be. I have looked at my daughter’s face millions of times without seeing a connection, and suddenly, there it was before me. I didn’t really stop to think about it at the time — I probably thought I was imagining seeing a resemblance at last.
Then, as she sat across from me yesterday after school when we went to get something to eat, I was struck again with a feeling of looking at something so familiar, but something I haven’t seen for so long: the face I grew up with, the face that stared back at me when I looked in mirrors. It felt strange to notice so suddenly what must have been changing subtly before my eyes for a very long time.
A couple of years ago, when my parents came to visit me, I told them how happy I was to see friendly faces. My father laughed and asked me what I meant, and I explained that he couldn’t know what it feels like to live every day knowing you will never search a room of people, or be out on the street, and see anyone who reminds you of who you are. Once, while I was out shopping, I spotted a man I would have sworn was my father. This man had my father’s walk, his mannerisms; I wanted to run up to him and ask what he was doing here … but, of course, it wasn’t him. I had forgotten for a moment that my father was far away — and then I remembered, and life went on as usual.
When my parents visit me, I know for a short time that my world will have familiar faces close by. I guess that’s what I meant when I told them I was so happy to see “friendly faces,” faces that connect me to who I used to be.
My daughter’s hair is shades lighter than mine, her eyes are bigger, she is inches taller than I was at her age, but her face is now so much like mine used to be. Just looking at her thrills and amazes me. It’s like stumbling upon someone I thought I’d never see again.
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