...and I still don't know how to describe him to people I meet for the first time. If I say I have an adult child people usually get a confused look on their face. I guess "adult child" is an oxymoron. Sometimes I think what they actually hear me say is "adult/child," and then they look really confused. And if I have an adult child what does that make my sixteen-year old, a non-adult child? A child-child? I've never heard either of those terms used in conversation before. I suppose if I delivered them with enough authority I could look like I'm on some linguistic cutting-edge and they're just out of touch. Instead, however, I start turning red at that point and my armpits start getting sweaty. They in turn look like they think I'm making it all up, that I really don't have a family at all, that I actually live alone at the YMCA. If I tell them I have a child that's really an adult, then I sound like one of those obnoxious parents with a precocious 12 year-old that takes classes at the local community college. This is when the ship begins to take on water and no amount of grinning can help. Some people look at their watches right about then and mumble something about needing to be Somewhere Else, right now!
It doesn't help to talk about All My Sons; they might get confused and think I'm talking about the Arthur Miller play that's so popular right now. And if I mention my Two Teenagers it sounds like I'm Fred MacMurray playing monopoly with Chip and Ernie. Joe doesn't even live at home anymore; he goes away to school. And even when he's here he's not here. Again, confusing. And there's no Uncle Charlie here, either (unless you count me). Or a Bub, for those of you who remember the estimable William Frawley, the original Boring Old White Guy.
So I guess it's another year of hemming and hawing. Oh well, happy birthday Joe. I love you and I'm proud of you. You've come a long way since "God damn it! I've got sand in my diaper!"
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