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Switched at Birth?

I sometimes wonder if it’s possible that all three of my kids were switched at birth. I mean, I know that it would be highly unlikely, but perhaps there’s still a tiny possibility?

People will now be sure to point out that two of my three children look pretty much exactly like their father. So, taking that into account, the only other logical explanation that I can come up with is that, somehow my husband fathered (at least) two children with another woman at the exact same time he knocked me up, she gave birth at the exact same time and then, in some bizarre sci-fi twist, the babies were swapped out for one another.

It’s totally possible, right?

It has to be. Because, you guys, I’m 99% sure my kids aren’t biologically mine.

Growing up, there was one thing on earth that I was 100% sure to order at a restaurant when it was on the menu. I would forego an entree, and order something lame like a salad, simply so I could satisfy my craving for my favorite food. In fact, growing up we used to frequent The Barnsider restaurant in Sugar Loaf, NY, and of the hundreds of times I’ve eaten there in my life, I probably ordered the exact same thing 99% of the time.

A side salad (with ranch!) and an order of mozzarella sticks.

That’s right…the artery clogging, creamy and crunchy goodness of fried mozzarella is my weakness. And yes, I said is, because to this day, I can rarely resist their allure when I see them on a menu. In fact, last year we visited a restaurant that I used to frequent in college, they had the BEST mozzarella sticks back then, but sadly, they were no longer on the menu. The owner, upon hearing about my fond memories, took it upon himself to make me a personal batch of gooey balls of delicousness. Sadly, they weren’t as good as their predecessors, but they were still pretty dang good.

As you can see, I have quite a thing for mozzarella sticks. My kids, however, don’t. They really couldn’t care less about them. Dylan refuses to even touch them to his lips. Zach will take a few bites and then move on, and Oliver is pretty much unimpressed. It’s as if I’m living in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

I’m trying to decide if I should contact Maury Povich to see if he’ll hook us up with some paternity/dna testing. Although, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I should simply let it be and enjoy the fact that I don’t ever have to share my favorite guilty pleasure with my kids.

Photo Credit: The Hungry Dudes via Flickr

Read more from Meghan on MeghanGWine and From Demo to Dream

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