Our Family Beginnings

I also don’t do well with accents.  So if you have one, even within this country, I may just nod but not have understood you.  Asking “what?” for the 50th time tends to lose its charm.

Which brings me to a story that Mel has promised to hold over my head well past my 80th birthday.

Today I was in the post office getting stamps, when an older woman gets in line behind me and V.  He charms away and she prattles on about how wonderful children are and how boring and awful my life would be if I didn’t have him.  Since she was from a different era, I gritted my teeth and laughed with her.  “Gee thanks lady! So if I were childless, I’d pretty much want to off myself to escape my boring and meaningless existence ?  Wow, that is such a refreshing thought that I have never heard before.  None of my friends could ever relate to that sentiment.”  Okay, I didn’t say that, but you know you’d be thinking it too.
Anyway, she then says in her thick accent, “is he a foster child?”.  I was taken aback so fast.  How did she even guess?  So I said, “No, he’s adopted.”  She looked confused, but she just went back to telling me how lucky I am.  Which I agree, I am.  Only after a few more minutes of speaking to her did I realize that she had asked, “is he your first child?”.

So somewhere out there, a little old lady has a story for her family, or dog, or plants, or whatever about the crazy lady at the post office that insisted on saying that he was adopted when she asked me if he was my first.  Oh yeah, that happened.  I will now go flush the wax out of my ears.