Prying Questions

Our Thanksgiving was fairly average this year, with the exception that Primero went to his uncle’s place and I took the little ones to my uncle’s. The thing with going to my uncle’s for Thanksgiving is that it is a three-ring circus at their house. So, my uncle is my mother’s brother; one of three, only two are still living. But, my aunt, his wife, is one of like a million siblings (honestly, I think it’s 10). Not all of them show up, but a good many do and their children and their children’s children are there too. So, in a modest house, there are literally people everywhere. It is loud and crazy and I don’t know half the people. I go because it’s where my parents go, thus really the only family option for Thanksgiving.

 

I figured by this time, most of the people semi-understood the composition of my family. But, there was someone new this time; a friend of my aunt’s I think. She was introduced to me by my cousin, who also pointed out the two little one’s as my children, commenting my eldest was not along. The new woman innocuously asked the ages of my children and I dutifully listed them for her. When she heard my oldest child was legally an adult, she raised her eyebrows and said the same line I always hear, “You don’t look old enough to have a son that age.” Ok. I’ve grown accustomed to graciously accepting this backward compliment and leaving it at that, so I simply said thank you. But, she was not mollified. “No,” she went on, “I mean were you like 12 when you had him?” Um ok? I get that I look young, I hear it all the time and at 36 I still get carded. I’m lucky that way. But, it’s none of your business how old I was when my son was born. Do you want to hear me say I was a teenager when he was born so you can judge me? Yet, I could not stop myself. I was distracted by a very dysregulated Love Bug who needed my attention and so I answered, “He’s adopted” and walked away. It wasn’t until later that I was fuming at her insistence on getting an answer from me and my own compliance in responding – it’s the people-pleaser in me. What I should have said was it wasn’t any of her business. Yes, I am old enough to be the mother of my son. What does it matter how old I was when he was born? I certainly wasn’t 12, but even if I was, why do you stranger whose first name I don’t even know, need to be privy to that information? I need to practice a more snarky answer because people like that woman do not need, nor deserve, to know our story. I sensed, as I turned away from her to attend to Love Bug, she wanted to pump me for more information and the only sliver of satisfaction I have is knowing I didn’t give her the chance. I just have to be better prepared for the next time I’m faced with this question.

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