It’s always the blonde

Vanity will never be a curse for Sprog 1 while Sprog 2’s around. Earlier this week, after Sprog 1’s art class, a mum asked if she could take Sprog 2’s photo. She was going back to China and wanted to show her friends. The camera flashed madly as Sprog 2 struck a series of poses. The mum has been eyeing off Sprog 2 all term, like a juicy steak. She ruffles her hair, she gushes, she giggles. Sprog 2 is unfazed, because this happens to her a lot. Japanese tourists often beg for photos, clutching her like a native animal. Waiters at yum cha invariably pinch her cheek, give her high-5s or slip her lollipops. In Spain, the word “guapo” (pretty) followed her everywhere. Her blue eyes and blonde hair have been reeling ’em in for five years now. Actually, make that four. During the first year of her life she was a little … unfortunate looking. We fondly referred to her “the puggle”. Then she transformed into a life-sized kewie doll (the resemblance was particularly uncanny after Sprog 1 cut her hair off to use as hay for her plastic animals). The cooing quickly followed. All those strangers who enthuse over Sprog 2 never notice her big sister. She simply comes in handy when Sprog 2 goes mute and refuses to reveal her name or age. “It’s Sprog 2,” Sprog 1 sighs. “She’s five.” Sprog 1 doesn’t seem bothered that no-one asks her name or age, but it really bugs me. “They’re just making a fuss over her because she’s little,” I reassure her, hoping she won’t remember they didn’t make a fuss over her when she was little. I lie, when she was nine-months old she had hair that stood permanently on end like she’d stuck her finger in an electrical socket. That was a bit of a crowd-stopper. Those (unthinking) strangers don’t know what they’re missing. Every time I look at Sprog 1, I’m entranced.

DIET TRANSGRESSIONS: Rice at teppanyaki.

TONIGHT’S DINNER: The Sprogs have requested homemade meat pies. Sounds like salad night for me.