Monkey see, Monkey Woo.

‘Oh Lexy you must be so proud!!! He is gorgeous, he is absolutely beautiful, don’t you think?’

I am sat on a hospital bed 23 hours post hell on earth. My arse is in tatters, I’m terrified of having a wee and my legs are the size of individual century old oak trees. (Or those yellow tubes you see on building sites. They really did look like those yellow tubes. You know the ones that they slide rubbish down? The ones that, as a child, I used to think were actual slides the builders used to dismount the scaffolding, hence me telling anyone who would listen, aged 5, that when i grew up I wanted to work in construction. Anyway I digress. That is what my legs looked like.)

Why is all the weight still here? It was supposed to drop off?! I shake my bingo wing dispassionately and try to focus.

‘What?’ I accidentally spit out. ‘What was that?’

It is visiting hour. The deathly warm post natal ward is crammed full of crinkly pink and blue helium balloons and over excited grandparents shrieking and clapping and slurping at NHS luke warm tea. There is a metal bin directly adjacent to my head. If one more person slams it, they will have to transfer me from the Hormonal fatty ward (as I have come to know it) to the maximum security moose on the loose ward as I will undoubtedly stab them with my plastic, soggy curry fork.

In spite of all this going on around him my freshly brewed boy is laid in a heavenly, snuggly and beautiful bundle on my big fat lap. He is bloody gorgeous. His features are scrunched up in to a tight ‘Don’t mess with me or I will kick your arse’ face and he is bright orange. The labour was as heavy going on him as it was for me. (He is honest to god the most orange baby you ever saw. But it is ok. They are bringing a sun bed in for him later and I fully intend to get under it with him. I could do with a bit of colour myself.)

‘I said,’ my best friend repeats, ‘you must be so proud. He is bloody gorgeous.’

Proud?  Is she on glue? Proud isn’t how I would describe myself right now. AT ALL! Knackered, half the woman I once was, Amazed, transfixed, confused, tired, in pain, shocked, terrified, and a little bit angry (hormones) probably sums half of what I am feeling now. But Proud? Proud? Proud of what? It wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter! He had to be born, he had to come out, even though I changed my mind half way through and tried to get up and go home, and there is no lying here, I was a full on wimp. No, no I am not proud. I am in shock. I am a wobbly, thirsty mess. 

‘I really am proud’ I state loudly (what was I supposed to say?!) ‘I cannot believe I made him. He is so perfect.’

‘I can’t believe it either to be honest,’ she shakes her head in amazement, ‘he looks absolutely nothing like you, he is his dad all over don’t you think?’

That was the first time ever, myself and my bestest friend in the whole wide world had a little fall out. I was hormonal. I was in pain. I was fatter than a beached whale at the end of seal season and I was at the very start of the emotional rollercoaster of a lifetime. 

‘Get out.’
‘Get out.’

At which point I burst out crying and she hugged me fiercely. (I did say little fall out.)

Turns out she did me a favour. She was simply preparing me for what was to come. Every visitor, every midwife, every stranger who saw the three of us together , every check out girl, every family member, every random woman in the street, would share with me their opinion. He looked nothing like me. Was I sure he was even mine? 

‘Oh he looks just like his dad – Sorry Lexy.’

‘Oh he is the IMAGE of the Irish one – sorry Lexy’

‘My god he is just like daddy isn’t he Lexy?’

‘Ha! If you hadn’t birthed him I wouldn’t be too sure he was even yours, sorry Lexy!’

‘WOW! Is he even yours? Does he look like his dad? Sorry – random mother who looks like she may kill me.’

It always ends the same way. We will make a joke about how he looks nothing like you, break your heart in to a million pieces (a touch dramatic maybe) but none of it matters because we finish by saying Sorry. Essentially we can say what we want as we are putting a sorry at the end.  (I have so many uses for this!! OY troll face, you are a slutty bitch – Sorry shitforbrains. (Names have been changed to protect all involved.) 

‘Oh he has his dads EVERYTHING doesn’t he? He doesn’t look a bit like you at all! –Sorry Lexy.’

I have dealt with it now though. It doesn’t bother me at all. Go on say it, it’s ok. He is his dad all over, I know. Don’t be sorry. It saves on a paternity test. Not that we would need a paternity test. This isn’t some dodgy episode of Jeremy Kyle or anything. I am not sat here in a pair of jeans six sizes too small for me (liar) with my muffin top on show (liar) for all the world to see while smoking crack cocaine, beating up my husband, shagging my brothers girlfriend, punching my mum and letting the dog breast feed the baby. (Where do they find these people?) and besides, the last thing I need is another man shouting at me, telling me I should be ashamed of myself (really Jeremy? Really? Do you think they will be at this point?) No, don’t be sorry, when you laughingly tell me MY SON looks nothing like me, because whether he looks like me or not he is still MY SON. I don’t mind you telling me he looks NOTHING like me over and over again. Why would I? It’s not like I went through 65 hours or labour or anything.  It’s not like it makes me want to slap you across the face or anything, (..and breathe…) 

‘My god, he is a mini Irish One isn’t he? All he needs is a beard!’

He is a boy. My son is a boy. I am glad he looks like a man. I am sure if he looked like me he would have been even more stunning than he is now, but whatever. Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. Really it is. I don’t mind at all. Everyone says the same and that is ok. Honestly. It is fine; his dad is ok looking I suppose. I mean I fancied him enough to have his baby. So Addison should be fine.

Have you noticed though? He has my hands. Look! Look at his hands and then look at mine. You see? We have the same hands. So it is ok that he looks like his dad because he will always have my hands, and some people say he has my eyes too, but whatever. You know I don’t mind either way. He is gorgeous so you know, don’t be sorry. I am totally at one with the fact he looks like his father. It doesn’t bother me at all ok? Shall we move on?

(Is it just me that finds this rude and thoughtless? I mean, im not being funny but I did all the work. It would be nice if he looked a bit like me you know? I incubate, create and birth and daddy gets all the glory? It would be nice if the ODD person said he looked like me you know? I would know you were lying but it would make me feel better!)

But whatever. He has my hands, and his dad is good looking so it’s fine. No, honestly it really is. I may have 5 stitches in my arse, but don’t be sorry! My son is gorgeous. And just like his dad, like you said. But he has my hands. Have you seen his hands? And his feet! He has my monkey feet too. He is such a lucky boy! By the time he is sixteen he will be able to change channel with his big toe.

It’s a gift, it really is.

And anyway I have a fix for this problem.

I am mother. I can fix anything.

In the next few days I intend to copy my sons every move. So if he doesn’t look like me, I will eventually begin to look like him.

What do you think?

I think it will work.

Now, let me just stick some fish finger in my ear, yoghurt up my nose and we are good to go!


17 Comments on “Monkey see, Monkey Woo.

  1. Love that picture!
    But seriously he looks no….just kidding,
    and I always get that I look just like my dad which would drive my mom all sorts of crazy. I never understood til the 1st time someone said my youngest looked just like their dad. The nerve.

  2. Boring commen from me coming up! My beat friend had a physcology paper published on this issue.
    She had access to various maternity units in the north west & took photos of new babies & their parents – the photos were then shown to family, friends & complete strangers.
    First you had to try & match baby to parents & then you had to say who baby looked like – her study proved that people tend to say baby looks like Dad as their is NO doubt who Mummy is!!!
    Addy does look like you!!!!

  3. Fab post. Awww he DOES look like you a LOT in that photo. Really.  I get this a lot too and it is bloody rude!

    Also, I get how my girl looks the image of her step brother. Great, but the other day you were telling me for the hundreth time how beautiful his “almond-shaped eyes and elfin features” were, which you have remarked upon many times in relation to the boys mother – when you weren’t busy remarking out of nowhere that your son had probably only been with her as her legs looked good in fishnets, that is. Yeah, thanks dear father in law.

    Oops sorry, went off on one there. I might be projecting slightly but I definitely feel angry for you!!!!!

  4. Oh goodness! I am frantically scanning back through my memory bank hoping I’ve never said this to anyone! I had no idea! Everyone used to say K looked like her Daddy, and I could sort of see that they had the same-ish lips, but as someone who is completely faceblind (seriously struggle to recognise people unless they are in context or I hear their voice!) I’ve no hope of spotting similarities between parent and child anyway!
    Memory scan results are in and (phew) don’t think I’ve upset anyone:-/ But you’ve got nothing to worry about with Addy, just wait til you see all your mannerisms and languaging come out in him – it’s so cute and hilarious! And look at those GORGEOUS hands;)

  5. I’ve been told my an old midwife (who may have been lying to me to make me feel better) that all babies look like their father when born . mother natures way of making sure they know it’s theirs. there are probably a billion squillion people that will now say this isn’t true but i don’t care, I’m sticking with it. It makes me feel better.

    Besides which, they now look like neither of us.

  6. I HATE it when people tell me my babies look like their Daddy and not me (my MIL tells me nearly every time she sees us, once a week). I actually flipped at her a few weeks ago and said “do you any of my children will ever look like me?” If per chance they don’t look like Hubby one week you can guarantee they look like someone else in their side of the family!! Had to laugh this week though, after my rants apparently my son is “totally you” as in me!!

    For the record, both if my babies look exactly like various members of MY family and nothing like Hubbys.

  7. Well I reckon you’ve cracked it! He’s the spit of you in that photo! And I totally sympathise – I get that me little un looks like Dad all the time (and mine’s a girl! Bit worrying!)

  8. Brilliant!
    If its any consolation , my boys don’t look like me either, they are all spitting image of their dad, their good bits of their character are from me, so that’s ok!

  9. Well I haven’t seen many photos of the Irish One but as far as I am concerned Addy is the spit of you! He looks completely like you, I cannot believe that anyone thinks differently.

    Whenever anyone says that he looks like hubby, I flip out! Because actually, regardless of the fact that *I* grew him and *I* had my bits slit open to get him out with a pair of salad tongs yanking away, he actually looks like me not hubby! I even ran a contest on Facebook showing photos of The Boy, me and hubby at the same age. No-one choose hubby as the one he looks like, everyone chose me. There… proves it!

    Plus, it’s rude! Think it, don’t *say* it!

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