Every Picture Tells a Story, Don't It?

I don't use my real name, or pictures of myself or my Precocious Daughter, on this blog.

Although some of you have tracked me down and befriended me IRL, you magnificent bastards.

Hehehe.

Anyway, I think baby pictures are probably safe here. I mean, who still looks the way they did when they were a baby?

And now this is in my search history.
The things I do for you guys. Jesus.

When you are downsizing and moving, inevitably you end up going through old photos. Because you have multiple cardboard boxes full of loose pictures that probably could be significantly consolidated if you actually took the time to organize and neatly stack them. Also, you'll probably find things you can safely discard, like the invitation to your sister's second wedding (to the guy who turned out to be a criminal) or letters from people you literally don't remember ever knowing.

Anyway, I've been looking at a tremendous number of old photos lately. I've been re-introduced to my really, really questionable hairstyle choices of the past (red-headed perm, hippie-grunge look, I'm-really-terrible-at-updo's  look, etc.), as well as all the beautiful, wonderful stages of PDaughter's upbringing.

I don't know how my almost-ex-spouse and I managed to raise such an amazing kid, to be honest. It's enough to make you believe in miracles.

Like this. (I love you, Drummer Boy.)

Anyway, I found these a couple of days ago.

This is me back in the swinging '60s.

I was a damn hippie.

This is PDaughter at about the same age.

She almost always smiled in photos. I don't know
what her problem was here.

Ay-yi-yi.

Apparently, she's really mine.

Today, she is a beautiful, confident, happy teenager. I'm a middle-aged hot mess.

I'd be totally happy if she didn't continue to follow in my footsteps, you know?

Anyway, who do you take after? Mom, dad, someone else?

Let me know.