I'm not sure how the geography and age difference thing came into play, but somehow those two overcame a lot of obstacles to ... ummm.... conceive sweet little me.
The reason I'm fairly certain of this fact is this:
Do you see that massive dimple in his chin.
I have one, too. And no-one else in my family does.
See? I told you. Disturbing isn't it?
I've tried very hard not to think of this for years, but earlier this week at our Granddaughter's Thanksgiving feast I was painfully reminded of the question of my paternity.
This is not one of those happy, little feel good Thanksgiving stories that will make you go 'awwwwwwww' and get teary eyed.
This is a tawdry tale of genetics gone wild. Do not be fooled by the cute little pictures of four year old Pilgrims.
There I was at our Granddaughters Thanksgiving Feast. Little kids were dressed up in construction paper costumes of Pilgrims and Indians. It was really, really sweet. The cutest one, the blonde in the brown polka-dotted dress is mine, of course.
Part way through the Feast part of the little program...
...one of the young mothers there started struggling a bit with one of her children. She was trying to hold her baby and help the other child and seemed to be getting frustrated. Then she looked at me and said, "Could you hold the baby for a second?" Could I? Could I? Babies? Heck, yea.
When I took the baby from her I almost gasped...the little kid had a huge dimple in his chin. Seriously huge.
Before I could start making funny noises and squishing the baby, though, our Grand pulled herself away from her oreo turkey and stomped over to me. She climbed up on my lap and started glaring at the baby.
And then she stopped...
And really, really looked at the baby.
She looked at me.
She looked at the baby.
She did this several times and then her eyes filled up with tears and she said in a hurt little voice, "Gwamma? Is this your baby?"
I told her no, but she persisted.
"Gwamma? Is this your Grandbaby?"
I told her no again.
She continued to look back and forth between the baby and me and finally blurted out, "Then why does the baby have a dimple?"
Right about then the Mom came back to retrieve the baby. I saw that she didn't have a dimple, so I asked her if her husband did. She smiled and said, "Yes! And I see your parents must have had one, too!"
A few seconds after our Grand had finished staking her claim on her Gwamma with sticky, red-frosted oreo fingers, she started to climb down, but before she did she asked me, "Gwamma? Does your Mom and Dad have a dimple, too?"
My eyes grew moist.
The years of shame and sorrow welled up inside me threatening to burst forth in a torrent of fear and abandonment.
I almost spilled my guts. Right there. Right then. Surrounded by paper clad Pilgrims and Indians.
But it was almost Thanksgiving.
And she was only four years old. And I didn't want to alarm her at how ugly the world could really be.
So instead I told her I wasn't sure. That I would have to look next time I saw them.
It's lonely not being able to share this family secret, you know?
Perhaps I can talk to my Grand about this upsetting subject next year when she is five. Maybe I can get her to ask my Mom to tell her the truth. And then she can tell me.
In the meantime, though, I'm just going to soldier on and try to have Happy Thanksgiving regardless of my Mother's indiscretions.
And listen, if you feel cheated by this depressing pre-Thanksgiving post you can always visit this one from last year. It is more in keeping with the joyous spirit of this day of gratitude.