Not the mama

There is a framed photo of our wedding propped up against a wall in the corner of our bedroom. It's not that I don't like it -- it happens to be my favorite wedding photo! It's just that I ran out of picture-hanging steam, I suppose. Plus, it's usually covered by our laundry basket, so I forget it's there.

Well, I decided to do some laundry the other day, so I took the basket down the hall, exposing the picture.

Rolin has been sitting in front of it since that day, pointing at the pictures and naming those he recognizes.

Cute, right? Aww, he knows who people are! 

Maybe you can even see yourself in this photo? Feel free to point at those you recognize and joyfully call out their names as if you're a 19-month old.

It's fun, yes?

But you know what has got me baffled and questioning my appearance lately?

He doesn't recognize the lady in white, the one holding his daddy's hand. 

You know, the one who birthed him and has never been away from him for more than eight hours at a time (not necessarily by choice...). 

You know, HIS MOTHER!?

He won't believe me when I tell him otherwise. 

To him, this is not mama. 

To him, our wedding photographer is his mother. 

Nothing against her, of course. She's a lovely lady! I just really wonder why I can't convince him that I am the other woman in the picture!!! Ha!

Could it be her cowlick? Maybe. It's similar to the one that makes an apperance at the back of my head if I don't wash my hair daily. And, if we're being honest, I can't tell you the last time I washed my hair two days in a row. Maybe that's it. 

Is it her watch? No, I don't wear a watch. 

Is it her red shirt? well, I do wear my bull shirt from Spain a lot...so much so it's kind of orange now. Maybe that's it. 

I often stand with my hand up like that, protecting my tender Norwegian eyes from the bright sun. Even on cloudy days (which sometimes seem brighter, for some reason). Maybe that's it.