I found this picture online, comparing Ronan Farrow to both Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen, the man who raised him. I don’t know. He does have Sinatra’s face, but Woody’s shirt collar. I think it could go either way here. Ronan himself was pretty funny about the whole situation, tweeting “Listen, we’re all *possibly* Frank Sinatra’s son.” This got me thinking: Could I be Frank Sinatra’s kid?
This is me and my father. I have his hair color (before his went white, but don’t tell him that—he thinks he’s still a blonde), his eye color, his ridiculously overly-sensitive skin, his high cholesterol, his love for sour cream . . . yup, there was no denying it: Dad was most definitely my biological father.
But I do have one parent that I don’t resemble AT ALL. That’s right: my mother, with her Greek features and olive skin, looks nothing like me. Was it possible that Mom wasn’t really my biological mother?
“Mom? If that’s your real name,” I muttered. “Do you actually have any proof that I’m your daughter? Or is it possible that you did, in fact, adopt me, and I’m really the long-lost Princess Anastasia?”
“What?” Mom said. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
I tried to question her further, but she was losing her temper, and fast. I never lose my temper that quickly. She was just making my case for me.
Mom is also the no-nonsense sort (whereas I am the high-nonsense sort, you see) and she immediately produced what she considered photographic evidence: a picture of her, quite pregnant, in the month and year of my birth.
Wow, I thought. I’d had no idea Photoshop was even around in the 1970s, but Mom had done a great job of making it look like she’d been nine months pregnant right before I was born.
“How about because I don’t like it when the taco shell breaks and dumps its contents in my lap?” she asked. She said a few other things, but I didn’t catch much beyond “nuttier than a pecan log.”
Mom can deny it all she wants. I know the truth. See? Just look at us:
Except for the fact that I have her forehead, nose, face, smile, and neck, we look nothing alike. Plus, you can't see it here, but I also have her body shape, hips, hands, and feet. And I guess it's a little odd that we went out to buy new frames for our glasses at separate times, and picked out the exact same frames. (I am not making that up. We have also gone on separate shoe-shopping excursions and bought the exact same sandals. Twice.)
The good news is, it turns out my parents really are my biological parents. I am not a long-lost Russian princess, which is also good news, because that would've made me 113 years old. The bad news? I’m pretty sure Mom is thinking about disowning me now.
Many thanks to my mother, who let me use that nine-months-pregnant picture of her without even questioning what I’d be writing about this week or using the picture for. THAT’s a mother’s love, folks.