The Things I Know

My kids give me a hard time for telling stories over and over, so I guess I've just come to take it for granted that they know every story I have (or at least those appropriate for their consumption). Every once in a while though, especially when I'm talking to my youngest, I find out that he has no idea about certain monumental events in my life or in family history. Today was one of those days. When I get started with the story and find out it's new to them -- or at least to one of them -- I'm so excited to share the details and fill them in.

We had a bit of a scandal in our family in the late eighties: My late ex-brother-in-law got a nasty crackhead pregnant. She kept the baby, and he (the brother-in-law) saw the baby sometimes. My husband at the time and I considered adopting her, and I won't go into all the reasons here why we decided against it. I was pregnant at the time with my middle son, and when the "baby-mama" was arrested on drug charges in New Jersey, I was out of the country, traveling with my oldest son and my mom. There was a brief period of time when we could have gotten at least temporary custody of her, but there wasn't much I could do to make that happen and, as I said, we'd pretty much already decided against going that route. The baby went into foster care and was eventually adopted; my brother-in-law died at the age of thirty-six from a heart virus (he wasn't a druggie); I have no idea what happened to the crackhead.

I couldn't believe my youngest son had never known any of this before today. He was surprised that his uncle (whom he barely remembers) had a kid, and even more surprised by the circumstances. Of course, you know I had to start my story with, "But you all always get tired of my stories," to which he replied, "That's only the ones you tell a hundred times." But, seriously, who can remember which story I've told to whom? Maybe now at least one of them will pay more attention.