Who's Your Daddy

We've all been part of those conversations where the question is asked, "So what country did your ancestors come from?" Of course we are supposed to say they are from Kenya or Germany, perhaps India or Mexico. The truth is I don't know. I have a wandering spirit that I suspect I got from my ancestors. So I see my past rooted in a handsome man from Spain, a pretty girl from India, a trader from the Middle East, a working girl in London, a plantation owner in Virginia and his slave girl from the Congo. I feel cosmopolitan, people from around the world made me, the world is my home.

I got an email from a friend telling me she is pregnant. It will be her second child. This got me to thinking about what it must be like to be pregnant. Twenty-eight and married for five years and still no children. It's not something I fret about but I have an aunt that is concerned enough to bring up the subject every time we have a family gathering. She had her first baby five months after getting married; a redhead, the only redhead in the family, who is a great cousin, fine man, good husband, and happy father with a little redhead of his own.

"Funny how genetics work," Auntie would say, "The DNA is there dormant for generations then bang, a redheaded baby."

"It was love at first sight when I saw your Uncle Ben" Auntie often said. "He was in the army and had just returned state side when we first met at a dance. He swept me off my feet and we were married eight weeks later and we've lived happily ever after."

I've worked out the timeline and think Auntie needs to rethink her DNA theory, especially since her senior high school year book has a Ken, who she was "sweet on," who just happens to have, you guessed it, red hair.

By the way, I think Auntie will stop asking me about babies, following our conversation we had around the Thanksgiving table last year. It was the usual, as Auntie spoke about how my folks wanted to be grandparents, how wonderful family life is with children, how I needed to work less so I could give my husband more attention, etcetera.

Finally I had it and launched into a small diatribe. "Auntie, what more can I do, we try to make a baby practically every day. I think we're doing it right, everything seems to fit and there is lot of goo so it moves real smooth. It sure feels good, I know that for certain. We try it this way and that way, bedroom and living room, sitting, standing, and lying, front and rear, top and bottom, in the morning and at night, sometimes long and slow, other times quick and fast. We moan, I yell, we shudder and shake. There is always a lot of cream and I sometimes put a pillow under my buttocks so the cream doesn't run out. The only thing I haven't tired is to get a boyfriend on the side!"

Half the people at the table stared at me in disbelief and the other half were looking down, picking at their food.

Christina, a college freshman, home for the holiday, broke the silence. "Mom gave me 'the birds and the bees' talk but I'm starting to think she left something out!"

Christina's mother was glaring daggers at me. "Sorry, I mumbled, "I got a little carried away."

Auntie didn't seem at all bothered by the talk and got up to serve the pie. When she got to me, she leaned down and whispered loudly, "Don't do that boyfriend thing," then continued with a quiet whisper in my ear, "wait until I can give you some pointers."

End of that conversation. Next topic, "My, the pie is good. Say when does that football game start?"

A few weeks after Thanksgiving, I got a Christmas gift from my Aunt. The note read:

"Dear Niece,

I spoke with the office gal where I get my insurance. For just a couple hundred dollars, she printed out the enclosed list of names. These are men, who I think would make a good boyfriend and they all live within 20 miles of you. They all are the same ethnicity as your husband; they have several expensive cars and an expensive house; they have children who are driving age and who get the 'good student' discount.

So I'm sure you'll find a man in this list that would enjoy impregnating you and you can be sure you'll be getting some good sperm!

P.S. I had these cards printed up for you. I suggest you just mail one of these to them at their office and let them do the rest.

Have a wonderful Christmas.

Love, Auntie"

Along with the note was a box of business cards.

I thought about my situation for a while and decided to sign up for a massage class at the Community College. I wasn't trying to become a masseuse or anything, just wanted to give good massages to my husband and to introduce a bit of intrigue into my life.

It worked out beautifully. By the following Thanksgiving I was ready to burst and by Christmas we had a baby in the house.

Auntie cornered me and wanted to get the inside story. I told her the cards worked magic and I was pretty good at giving massages. From what I could tell the kid was sure to be brilliant but we needed to be discrete about the whole matter and not bring it up again. She nodded knowingly; sure she knew what had happened.

I still have those business cards and like to sneak one into my husband's wallet or pocket, now and again, letting him know that tonight he can redeem that card for one of 'Those' massages!