The Color of Rose

Complexion is fascinating.

I’m about as dark as Michelle Obama. My husband, who is Irish- and German-American, tans well in the summer, but basically has the complexion of a movie extra from The Town. (Don’t ask me to produce  his long-form birth certificate unless you want to see me get pissed.)

Our two boys are moods of mocha; look at them side by side and you can almost see their parents’ gene pools swirling. Then, there’s Rose. I used to wonder what happened to the coffee in her cream, but then I realized: She loves bacon, sardines, guacamole and the crispy skin on baked buttermilk chicken.

In short, she is my daughter.

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