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LOOKING BACK, IT SEEMS OBVIOUS...
Daughter at left (who wishes to remain
anonymous because her mother
is clinically insane): Clearly mine.
Daughter at right (who doesn't wish to
remain anonymous because she is
NOT RELATED TO ME ANYWAY!):
Clearly the Mennonite's daughter.
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I have tragic news to impart.
As some of you already know, I am the mother of fantastically
beautiful daughters. Every time I look at them I think, "Well, I'm done. I can
die now and face my maker, secure in the knowledge that I have made the world a better place." (Much as my
mother must think every time she looks at
me. If only I had been twins; she'd be getting VIP seats in heaven for
sure!)
Anyway, something
happened over the holidays that turned my
heart to ice ... which is a scientific miracle, since it was originally made of coal ... and now I am pretty
much positive that my second-born daughter is not my natural child. She was almost
certainly switched at birth in some horrible hospital mixup when I shared a
room with A) a toothless Mennonite woman and B) a woman who told everyone who
came to visit her that she was "from Bell Island, Newfoundland."
(Even though, presumably, they would already know that, but perhaps this is
some quaint Bell Island tradition, like drinking screech or marrying your
cousin.)
I must admit there've been
moments when I had doubts about her parentage. (And I am not referring to paternity doubts, because
it's always the richest suspect who's the dad. Whether he is or not!)
For example:
* I am
a Yeti-esque 5'8". My daughter topped out at a dainty 5'1.
* I have tangly, curly hair. My daughter's is sleek
and bone straight.
* I am a vile, hot-tempered drama queen. My daughter is a sunny, even-tempered
sweetheart.
* My favourite food is liquor. My daughter's favourite food is shoo-fly pie.
Of course, all of those things could be chalked up to her father's weaker
genes somehow trumping my superior ones. But then there was a blood-chilling incident when the truth pierced me like a laser and I knew. I just knew: This cannot be my child. It happened when she and her husband came to visit during the festive season. Naturally, I offered refreshments.
Me: I bought some champagne for us to toast the season!
Daughter: Oh. Maybe I'll have a sip.
Me: *What is this 'maybe' of which she speaks?* Ohhhkay, well, how 'bout a glass of white wine to start?
Daughter: No thanks.
Me: Are you pregnant?
Daughter: No.
Me: Are you drunk?
Daughter: No.
Me: Are you driving?
Daughter: No.
Me: Then what's your excuse?
Daughter: *Shrugging* I just don't really like drinking.
Me: *Striking hand to breast, collapsing in a heap* OMIGOD! They switched my baby at birth! They switched my baby! Take me right now lord. TAKE ME RIGHT NOW!'
Daughter: Mom? Please get up, we can't stay long.
Editor's note: It is
painfully obvious: the toothless Mennonite
is her mother. Your real child is somewhere in the hills of Elmira right
now, leading a quilting bee while
simultaneously giving birth to her thirteenth child and churning
butter.
My note: YOU SUCK EGGS THE SIZE OF BOWLING BALLS!