My mother delights to no end in telling me of everyone she shows her baby brag book to. And, in a small town where everyone knows everyone, it’s a lot of people. Most of whom I don’t remember or actually never knew – but that’s besides the point. She shows them photos and reports to me.

Recently, she reported this lovely little gem after showing one of my pregnancy pictures to a family friend: “That can’t possibly be Jenny! She’s beautiful!”

Oh yeah. Burned, baby.

[please note: only people of my parents’ generation or older get to call me “Jenny”. I’ve attempted to be “Jenn” since my oh-so rebellious … or not… teens and it’s only half worked.]

So, um, I know there was definitely an awkward phase captured in my high school year books – what with the braces and the bad poodle-perms – and it was kind of the woman to say to my mother, who was shoving photos down her throat, that I looked good during my latter months of pregnancy, but come on. Why not: “That’s not your kid – the one with the wall bangs, sketchy eyebrows and too-tight jeans! How much did you pay for all the photo retouching?”

All right, all right. So, I have issues taking a compliment. I just have to be really careful which photos I let me mom have access to for printing. I’m sure that some profound statement on either my ego or my ability to objectively see myself. Either that, or on the photos that Jostens and my parents took of me when I was younger.

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