The small human I have have equal shares in seems to be intent on looking like me. A lot like me. It is amazing. It’s absolutely amazing that he looks so much like me that everyone has to comment on how much like me he looks.
It’s also a headfuck. Looking at a tiny version of yourself is occasionally disorientating. Are you me? I sometimes think/say (if I’m alone with him). Is he me? He could be me…is he me? But, no, he isn’t. Apparently the parents genes make the child which often results in a child resembling either/both parents. Which explains why I look like my mother and father, clearing up years of mystery.
Said resemblance is heightened when he wears one of his polo shirts. When he wears the tiny versions of adult clothes he simultaneously seems old beyond the tiny age he has (because he is wearing grown-up clothes and not a romper suit) and even more tiny than he already is because the clothes are the size of teabags rather than clothes.
Much like if, when he is 20, we put him in even tinier baby clothes than he wears now, he will look like some weird giant manbaby. I am not sure why I started this paragraph with ‘much like’ and then followed it with something that was about as like the thing I was describing as turning the page of a book is like the concept of hot air ballooning.