It's a rare day that I take Brody out somewhere and someone doesn't make a comment about his hair. It's red. Nine times out of ten, someone will ask, "Where did the red hair come from?"
It's an innocent question. Maybe they're trying to just make conversation, maybe they're truly curious. But no one EVER asked me where Emma or Addie got their hair colors from. I always proudly say, "Oh, my dad (and nearly every person on his side of the family!) has red hair" which is true, but Gary and I have snickered lately thinking of other replies -
(after exchanging remorseful looks) "Ohhhh... it's kind of a sore subject."
"The milkman." (Which, it turns out, could really confuse the poor kid years from now.)
"Gary's friend..." (It's fun to see how big their eyes can get.)
"My sister's husband." (They'll nod and say "oh" and then realize "OH!")
I LOVE Brody's hair. I think it's darling, and Gary and I both proudly give credit for it being in our gene pool since Gary's grandma had red hair too.
But for every comment about Brody's red hair, I get one about how different my kids look. They each have a different hair color. Emma is almost brunette, Addie is bright blonde, and Brody is a cute little red head. Kind of like...
Isn't that cute? A friend pointed it out to me awhile back and said that she dreamed of the same scenario, and being able to stand on the front porch calling, "Neapolitan!" when it was time to come in for dinner.
I can totally do that!
I also have heard them compared to the Rice Krispies guys:
But I think I prefer Neapolitan ice cream. Don't you?