When I'm out running errands with my entourage, the most common question I have to field is, "Are they all yours?" But invariably, the next question is, "Where did they get the blond hair?" See, I was blonde as a child, but by the age of 12 my hair had darkened to that point where you could no longer tell if it was a light brown or a dark blonde. I'm a deep chestnut brunette now (with sparkly silver highlights), which apparently makes me as out of place as a black orchid in a garden of lilies. It doesn't help AT ALL that the majority of the children favor their father's side of the family, either.
The difference is especially obvious when I have my four
It's even worse when Conor accompanies me. He's the blondest of my blondies, with a head of hair like corn-silk which, at age 11, still isn't showing signs of turning darker.
I could try to explain that I used to be blond as a child, but these conversations usually take place as I'm entering or exiting the grocery store. No time for lengthy explanations. I usually have to reply, lamely, "Well, my husband is a blond," which isn't exactly true anymore. I mean, I still think of him as a blond, but my older children argue this point vigorously. They insist that he's got light brown hair now.
Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. WHATever.
So I offer, as proof of my former blondicity, and to validate my claim as mother to these towheads, bona fide snapshots of me as a child:
Age 2, 3, 4
1st grade, 4th grade
And the strangest thing is that even though I haven't technically been a blonde for 29 years, I still don't automatically think of myself as having dark hair. Inside I will forever consider myself a blonde.