It was August 1981. I was 18, and about to start my freshman year of college. I was young, I was nervous, and I was driving my mother to an OB/GYN appointment. There was some concern that she was experiencing a somewhat early menopause, or perhaps had a tumor or cyst that needed to be addressed.
The true joy of that day was sitting in the waiting room with the expectant mothers (and a few steely-eyed but non-expectant mothers there with their entirely too-expectant daughters). I’ve always looked younger than I am. In my 50s, I appreciate that more than I did then — I didn’t look a day over 15 at most, and this earned me some hard looks, disapproving scowls, and a furtively whispered conversation.
So when my mother emerged from the mysterious confines of the exam room, I made of point of saying, “Ready to go, Mom?” earning me some nervous and sheepish expressions (and one hard look from someone who apparently thought it was my fault anyway. You pervert).
My mother didn’t say much, and we got in the car and began the 30-minute drive home. Mom rode in ominous silence — she’s normally a gregarious chatterbox, and being about as nervous about college as I was, certainly had things to say.
But she didn’t, and it dawned on me why. As we pulled into the driveway, I said, “Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”
“Okay,” she replied.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, in exchange for chauffeur services, you have to tell me the day you will tell Dad so I CAN WORK LATE AND NOT GET KILLED FOR KNOWING BEFORE HE DID.”
“Okay.”
And life went on for a few days. My schedule and Dad’s didn’t overlap much, so I managed to not have to look him in the eye. But later (I think on a Saturday…can’t remember, but that’s the only day where he and I would have been home at dinnertime together), I walked in on the rest of the family having a meal…in deathly silence. My brother and sister were focused on their food. My mother kept rearranging her plate. And my father sat there with a fork in one hand, a steak knife (off which I never took my eyes) in the other, and a complete, uneaten meal in front of him.
“Oh. You told him,” I said.
“Uhhhnnnn…” said Dad.
“Well….”
“Uhhhhnnnn….” said Dad.
“I’ll just go sit in the trailer and listen to the shortwave.”
“Wait…YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?”
Exit, stage left, pursued by a bear.
That was slight hyperbole…there was no pursuit, nor a bear. The evening was actually fairly tame as Dad stewed and Mom fretted. It was the NEXT day when Dad let loose with one of his classic rants. THE BOY IS STARTING COLLEGE! WE DON’T HAVE MONEY! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? (I don’t even want to speculate here.) WHEN ARE YOU DUE? MID-NOVEMBER?! YOU’RE 7 MONTHS ALONG?!!?????!?!??!??111??!?!!?!ELEVEN?? HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW?
I suddenly stopped being all that nervous about college. In fact, it was a very busy time, and I was able to ignore the entire situation without guilt. Certainly without worry, because I knew that Dad would be fine the moment he set eyes on his newborn child.
And he was fine, and proud of how my kid brother turned out. As are we all, I think.
Happy birthday, Boo!