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I was Given the Wrong Child

I think the hospital gave me the wrong child. My real child is somewhere with her nose stuck in a book and her head in the clouds, loathing pink, princesses and tutus.

The daughter I am mothering loves all those things. She may look like me with curly hair, brown eyes, and pale skin, 35 years younger and 300 pounds lighter. But, personality-wise, we’re like night and day, or Ernie (her) and Bert (me). I was never happy-happy-joy-joy, outgoing or girlie. Never. I’m still not.

I picked her up the other day and she runs up and greets me. Then she announces to everyone within shouting distance: “This is my mommy. My mommy is here. Hi Mommy!!”

Who is this child? I was shy. I still am shy.

She is outgoing and athletic. The Presidential Fitness Test is the only test I ever failed with a zero. I was the one with the doctor’s note to get me out of PE.

It’s hard for me to admit all these outstanding traits must come from her XY side.

Through she is a lot like her grandma. A LOT like her grandma, and a lot like my two sisters.

I wonder if my mom thought I was mixed up at birth too. What is this sullen, introverted thing, my athletic, outgoing and bossy mother must’ve thought when she looked at me. She bought me make-up, heels, and dolls and I didn't want or like any of it. Give me my Breyer horses or give me death, I said.

My sisters thought I was the weird one too.

The dominent genes must've just skipped me.