Questions

Yesterday, we had lunch with my old boss/friend, Marian. When Marian graciously went to move her car so we could park in her parking spot, Jory thought this would be the perfect time to question me.

“Mommy, is she my mother?”

“What?” I asked, not sure if I heard him correctly as I tried to find the baby’s bathing suit.

“Is she my mother?” he asked, quietly.

Now I really can’t hear him. “What are you asking, man?”

“Nothing,” he answered.

“Were you trying to ask me if Marian is your birth mother?” That had to be what he was asking.

“Yes,” he said.

“No, she’s not your birth mother.” It would be quite a feat for our sixty-nine Jewish friend to be your birth mother though.

“Who’s my birth mother?” he continued.

Oh crap. It starts with a “M”, but Marian’s name was the only M name I could come up with. It was there, on the tip of my tongue. “Marlene. Your birth mother’s name is Marlene.”

“Does she know me?”

“She hasn’t seen you since you were a tiny little baby, so she doesn’t know you now that you are a big boy.”

And scene. So interesting how these questions pop up, I answer them, and then it’s on to the next subject.