I |yrkhb|referrer|fnbfd
often find myself staring at this little girl. I can’t help myself. I’m smitten. She’s mine. But, so very often, as hard as I look, I do not see myself there.

She has her Mother’s eyes. A steely blue that shimmers like ice in the right light. Skin like cream. Blond hair that could not have come from my side, even despite it’s curl. Maybe the curl is mine, but who knows. Her walk, that ball-forward gait – Bethany’s. The way she talks is a combination of Bethany and, increasingly, her British born care provider. Certainly not me.

So, as I stare, I so very often wonder where I am.

Much of her face is still too early to tell. The nose and cheeks and mouth and shape of it. All will change so much over the next several years as toddler becomes little girl. Perhaps, when her features form, her face will provide a glimpse of me. But this hope provides little truth right now.

Then there is the personality. The strict adherence to rules, especially those self made, arbitrary, and imposed. The flash-fire temper that ignites with little tender and calms just as quickly. The many unique personal habits both good and bad. All of this is straight from her mother as if cloned in a lab.

Will, I ever show up in any of her angelic features? Will I ever feel as if I somehow contributed in any way other than nurture?

Then, the other day, we were waiting in a line. Beatrix, belying the patience normally found in a two and a half year old, crossed her arms in a way that was not intertwined in the traditional style but, instead, one atop the other…

Ah ha! There I am.

Because, truth be told, if I can see some part of me, in someone so beautiful, perhaps I will feel some small part of me is beautiful too.