The other day, I was reclined on the couch, “resting my eyes,” while the kids were having a snack in the kitchen.
I heard one of them take a few steps into the hallway, apparently stopping to gaze at one of their ancestors lovingly displayed on the wall:
I recognized the sound of those footsteps, it was Mini-Me, my 8 year old daughter. Her eyes fixated on a portrait of my tow-headed little brother and me as young children:
After a long moment of silence, she quietly spoke to her brothers. “Can you believe that was Mommy when she was little?”
I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was captivated and mystified, as children often are when they see photos of their parents as children. My eyes were still closed, but I could tell by the silence that she was transfixed.
Uncle T. and Iris, 1974.
“Yeah?” her big brother replied, as in, so?
Mini-Me: “I can’t believe Grandma would do that to her.”
Hi, I'm Iris. I'm a suburban hostage with excessive facial hair and a penchant for boxed wine. Sometimes I feel like an invisible vessel for grandchildren and PTA donations. I take pictures of my dog's poop. Welcome to my blog.