Last night, I half awoke to find myself...looking at myself. My child-self, laying there on my pillow. I smiled, and wondered to myself what was wrong with the nose, because you see--my nose looked wrong, it was too pretty. And, I never had freckles.
As I was coming awake to ponder the mysterious appearance of freckles on my child-face; the form beside me sighed, stretched, and the shadow of my husband briefly graced it's features (Ah! It's his nose. Sort of.)
And sleepy eyes blinked open, smiling sheepishly (now that's my husband's grin) and said, in my daughter's voice "I had a bad dream..."
Sometimes I forget they inherited more from me than allergies.
There's love of books, they both got that. And my oldest hates math as much as I did. The youngest is shy to an extreme at times. (Although, my husband claims a bit of responsibility for that) They're dreamers, and thinkers, and plotters and planners. Their imagination is vast and their dreams are big.
For all that they inherited, they are simply themselves, and I'm amazed each day that I was lucky enough to become their mother.