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Friends since they met at two on a playground in Wheaton, Alyssa and Kate are now “flute assassins”.

I can’t really take credit for much when it comes to my kids.  Know what I mean?  There are proud moments when Mir and I look at our children and want to take credit for the admirable trait said child has demonstrated.

“You know, she gets that outgoing smile from me.”

When I say things like that I usually get a big sigh followed by a smackdown of epic proportions from my wife.  All good things come from her, after all.  If it’s a bad trait, of course it is a result of my gene pool.  If I dare say that Alyssa resembles my grandmother, prepare for the nuclear fallout.

She does resemble my grandmother, in so many ways.  I see the kindness, the genuine warmth, and the sweetness in the way she smiles.  When I see her face in full like that I think of my grandmother.  Grandma didn’t have the curly red hair or blue eyes, but everything else about that face is Grandma Slagle.  We live on through our children and grandchildren.

That’s a scary thought or it can be.  It’s not when the child is all things good.  My daughter is one of those.  Look at her finger in the picture and you’ll see me wrapped around it.

Alyssa is outgoing, never lacking for friends.  Intelligent.  Motivated.  Responsible.  Some day she is going to be a full blown teacher and she is already on her way.  Flute assassin?  That was her role last week as she led her middle school all girl flute choir at their annual “Hubbleween” performance.  My daughter volunteers as leader of that group along with her friend.  The girls love her.  They play well.  And they have fun.  At the concert they all dressed in black and stocking caps, “assassinating” each other one by one with their flutes as they performed Halloween themed songs.

Alyssa with her middle school girls.

She’s my daughter.  Mine.  I like it when I see myself in her.. and when I see my wife.. and my grandmother.. and Mir’s dad.. and the list goes on.  We all have a bit of all of our past in us.

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