When I was 27 weeks pregnant, I had a 3D ultrasound. The second the technician found a good angle and projected my unborn child's tiny face onto the giant screen, the entire room (my husband, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and me) burst into laughter. The technician gave us a sideways glance; she didn't see it like we did. There it was, plain as day, my husband's face on a squishy little baby in utero.
Since before he was born my son has bared striking resemblance to my husband. I had no chance really, my husband is the splitting image of my father-in-law and my son the splitting image of both of them. Aside from the blonde hair, light skin and blue eyes (that have stayed the same dark shade into his second year suggesting they are a permanent feature and not the fleeting hue most babies possess for a year or so), he looks exactly like my husband. It isn't until my son opens his mouth that you can tell, undoubtedly, that he is mine.
As a working stay-at-home mom, I'm lucky to spend a lot of time with my son. This easily led to his first word being "mama," (mostly because I prodded him gently when no one else was around to ensure it would be), and now that he speaks in full sentences, it's impossible not to hear myself in him daily. He walks into a messy room and exclaims, "oh my goodness!" mouth agape as he flings his arms into the air. He mutters "ay yi yi," when the dog is being especially hyper, pronouncing each word exactly as I, using all of the same inflections. It makes me smile to hear my voice in the kid who only slightly resembles me regardless of the fact that I birthed him, but sometimes it makes me a little self-aware, too (much as I imagine actors feel when they watch themselves on screen). I never realized how often I say "honey," until my two-year-old mini-me started randomly adding it to the end of unrelated words. I didn't notice my affinity for scolding the dog (perhaps a little too often) until my son started yelling "go away, Nine!" at him as we all played side-by-side. My son acting as my permanent echo gives me a a unique look into how I sound to others, which is simultaneously hilarious and terrifying.
It wasn't until we started employing time outs as punishment that my obvious impact on my son's vocabulary (and personality) became evident. It was mostly short phrases and exclamations at first, but then, right around his second birthday, when he started engaging in conversations and fully grasping the concept of being in trouble (made apparent by his following a swift hit with an immediate screech of "no time out!" before running down the hallway), I heard myself in him in a whole new way--my parenting practices on display right in front of me for my own judgment (and amusement).
One morning, I was perched at the dining room table, enjoying a cup of coffee, while my son played calmly (albeit not quietly) with his dinosaurs. It was then that he shouted "OW! Don't bite me!" to his tiny plastic long-neck and promptly carried him to the time out corner and began counting (one, nine, nine, nine, nine...) saying things like "turn around" and "look at me," in an even tone. I froze. And then I burst into laughter. It's like I was listening to a recording of myself where the sound had been altered to a higher pitch, and watching my life play out before my very eyes, my son in the role of me. There's no better way to see how directly your own behavior affects your offspring than watching them reenact a scene that seems to play on loop in your house.
I noticed something in that moment though; those reoccurring feelings I have that I'm too frustrated, too stressed, I yell too much and I'm not sure if I reprimand my son in an effective manner (I've forgone the controversial spanking thus far), floated away. I could tell right then, as he punished his tiny plastic dinosaur for his inexcusable behavior that he gets it. And maybe I'm not doing such a bad job after all. Although, I am trying to yell at the dog less.
