The second they placed Tate on my chest after he was born, I started studying his tiny features. Did he have my nose? Does that look like his daddy’s chin? Steve, my husband, and I started divvying up Tate’s physical traits.
As soon as we got to our recovery room, the hospital staff started chiming in. Instead of confirming that he was adorable partially because of his mom, they insisted that he was the spitting image of his dad. When I would quietly ask if they thought he might have my nose, they insisted that he was a 100%, grade A, daddy clone. And it really started getting to me. Hadn’t I worked for 9 months to grow this baby insides if me? Wasn’t I entitled to 50% of his genetic content?
My husband keeps telling me the little parts of our son that remind him of me. He consoles me by saying that people think he looks like his dad because his dad looks like an overgrown newborn, which is funny but doesn’t make me feel any better.
The question I have to ask myself is why it should possibly matter? We have a perfect baby who looks so much like the man I chose to spend the rest of my life with.
Has anything like this happened to any of you? How did you deal with it?
Genetics Feature: The science of gender roles