Of course my kids look like my wife and me. We made them, after all. That’s our genetic material at work there, and genes tend to work with what they’ve been given. Every single person to ever set foot into this world has carried features handed down to them by their ancestry. That old black and white family photo hanging in the hallway? That relic from the earliest days of photography with the image of those long passed ancestors that your mother can put names to after thinking about it for a minute or two? Isn’t it wild the way the kid sitting in the front row is the spitting image of the two year old now playing in the living room? No, it’s not, really. Such resemblances make all the sense in the world. And yet they still have a way of jolting us a bit when we realize their existence.

And siblings, my god! My eldest is often so meticulous in his endeavors, so reserved, so careful, while his baby brother is a ball of destructive energy, a blonde Tasmanian devil, a foot-and-a-half high testament to the joys of taking a risk because it’s there to be took. Isn’t that just nuts? Well, not exactly. They’ve got the same mom and dad, but they’re different people. Of course they act differently. In the history of the human race, there have been enough siblings for us to have observed how much they can and do differ. We should know this stuff by now.

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