We both share the same baby-fine hair. On her, it's cute. On me, not so much.
We both love books. I prefer to read them, and she still likes to lick them, but never mind.
And she and I share what I call conviction, and what my husband calls unflinching willfulness.
What we apparently do not share is my childhood affinity for the fat man in the red suit.
Here's me at almost 9 months old, pleased as all get-out to be sitting on Santa's lap all by myself. Look! I'm even clapping my hands. By all appearances, I am having a grand old time. (Although Santa looks as if rigor mortis has set in.)
And here's Isabella, at almost 16 months old. I turned her body around to sit on Santa's lap. She clung to me like Posh Spice to the Stairmaster and wouldn't let go. Santa then requested that I sit on his lap with Isabella (creepy!) to see if things got any better (they didn't), and the hubs snapped this keepsake photo for next year's Christmas card.
(Thanks for all your advice and insight into The Great Vegetable Debate of 2007. I've decided that hidden vegetables (as long as they're sneaked into healthy foods and not crap food) are better than no vegetables, so let the subterfuge begin.)