Body Language

Alexa, my beauty, has my nose. She's taller and leaner than I was and my brown eyes are blue on her. She, in my opinion, is a much prettier version of me. When I was 16 my adoptive mother let me have my nose fixed by a plastic surgeon because she agreed with me, my nose was too big. I remember her telling me, "When first I saw you, I knew something would have to be done about that nose of yours."

Ian, my athlete, has my legs. Short stocky powerful powerhouse legs. Growing-up my brother used to tease me about my Super Butt. I was always embarrassed by how round it was, and how it filled my jeans in ways that didn't look like the rest of the extended family wearing the same style of pants. My adoptive mother said I had legs (and body shape) like hers, and I believed her.

Katie, my drama queen, has my face and my toes. She also has my annoying personality. She's always singing. My adoptive dad said I always sang when I was little. I remember when and why that stopped.

Brendan, my wonder boy, has nothing familiar to me. I search and search, and for the life of me, I see no part of me in him. The beauty and blessing in that is that he is Katie's twin. Born at the same time, from the same womb, from the same mom: ME.

He is my gift from my mom, my family, that wonders will never cease from a family tree I never got to see.