My mom says Molly doesn’t look much like my other kids. To me she looks exactly like them and only like herself. (I am getting too fond of the “this and exactly the opposite of that” construction, I know.)
Molly at nine months. Avery wore that dress exactly ten years ago.
My Dad says (in a letter to my brother on his mission in Texas) that Molly isn’t as expressive as her cousin Eliza (my other brother’s first daughter), who isn’t as mobile as Molly. Tom has been a bit miffed ever since that letter (which I think is the cutest thing — Tom feeling a bit miffed on his daughter’s behalf. “Too bad she isn’t very expressive” he smirks as he tickles her into fits of laughter.) This convinces me of the perils of comparison. I try really hard not to compare my daughters (especially in their hearing). But I compare myself to other women all day long, mostly in my head. And it’s probably just as fraught.
Avery at six months at Tracey's reception. Those cheeks! Those arms! Mom's black eye!
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It’s good to have grandfathers to stir things up now and again.
I guess I really did stir things up, didn’t I? I think Molly is really cute, but when I give her eye contact, she stares blankly at me, at least for several seconds until she breaks out crying loudly. I guess it’s just me! And you’re right — comparisons are fraught.
I love her!
Grampa Tom