The Makings of a Very Awkward Conversation

We told my parents the good news last night. For now, they are the only ones who know (other than the interwebs, of course. I've got my priorities straight!). Since we're big nerds organized, Victor and I have set a schedule of who to tell when. I decided to tell my dad first because I knew that if I told my mama she would make such a ruckus that I would probably never get to tell my dad myself (and I was correct). When I picked up my phone I started to get nervous. I felt like I was calling my daddy to tell him his little girl was no longer a virgin. What would he think? Victor assured me that my dad had most likely already had surmised this detail about me based on the fact that, you know, I had been married for over a year. And not in the 1960's sitcom kind of way either. But my dad's response confirmed my fears.

Me: So, I'm pregnant.
Dad: (long pause) How did THAT happen?

Maybe my mama needs to lend him this book.

Being "Bad"

When I was a kid my parents were very strict about the kinds of music I listened to and the movies I watched. Only G-rated and pre-screened PG movies were permitted. We mainly listened to oldies with some Natalie Cole mixed in and one time when a George Michael video came on TV my parents changed the channel and gave us a lecture about what a BAD MAN he was.

Not being allowed to watch and listen to the forbidden media naturally just made me more curious to find out why such things were in fact forbidden. And I did.

Such is the purpose of cool aunts.

My mom's youngest sister, Jackie, is ten years younger than her and only 15 years older than me. She got married when I was six (a story for another day) and she and her husband Greg were much cooler and more worldly than any other family members. I loved spending the night with them, mainly because they would let me watch and listen to things that weren't allowed at home. And to a ten-year old kid there is nothing better than spending your Friday night watching PG-13 movies without your parents knowing.

Kindergarten Cop and Turner and Hooch are the movies I remember best. Jackie and Greg would also play their illicit music. Like Michael Jackson's "Bad" album. I have vivid memories of trying to moonwalk around their small house while singing "I'm bad, I'm bad." And I FELT "BAD"! Maybe it was "DANGEROUS". My parents would have strongly disapproved if they knew what I was doing and that being bad was just so good.

These memories were the first that flooded my mind at nine o'clock last night when Ann Curry's voice informed us of Michael Jackson's death. I feel like a part of my childhood has died. The part where even doing such harmless things as dancing to the King of Pop at my aunt's house felt so cool.

Now that I'm an adult listening to Michael Jackson (and really, pretty much anything else) doesn't feel risky. I'm allowed. But while freedom is nice, there was something so enchanting about that rush of being "Bad".

I am not very funny at 7am

I am currently at my favorite place in the whole wide world. This week will entail sleeping, reading, walking outside and laying on a towel to read and sleep some more, and eating. And playing with a really freaking cute baby. Who likes me. I'm hoping that all the cute baby time will make Victor crazy and say "baby, let's go make our own!"

But, I married a man, not a hormonal woman.

So that probably won't happen.

We're here with my parents, my brother and his girlfriend, the people who would be my godparents if I had any, their son, his wife, and their 364 day old baby. My blogging will probably be limited but I will try my best to entertain you with stories of my insane family and the orange tan, pink blush, peroxide blond, permed hair types we're sure to encounter.

And, a reference to a dead German composer in the women's bathroom at a barbecue joint we hit on the way here. I have a picture.

Have a good week, y'all.

Generations

This picture made me cry on Saturday:
It's of my Dad's mom, Alice Mae (little girl on the left) and her siblings. Alice died when my Dad was about 10 years old. She had rheumatic fever as a child and it left her with a heart defect. She died in her sleep and the morning my Grandpa discovered her he still got his three sons dressed and sent them to school.

I only learned these things several months ago.

See, we never talk about Alice. My Grandpa remarried when my Dad was still a kid. I'm not sure if we don't talk about Alice because it upsets my Grandma or because it's too painful. But recently, I've started really wanting to know.

In this picture of Alice I see my nose. And I want to know, what else did she give me?

I can see other parts of myself in other family members. My cautiousness from my mom's mom, my curiosity and love of reading from my mom, my rational thinking and quick temper from my dad.

What did Alice give me? Maybe my overdeveloped sense of justice? Or my laugh? Or my ghetto booty?

And even beyond what I got from my family, what I hope to become. My parents' forgiveness, my Granddaddy's hospitality and congeniality, my Granny's generosity, and my Grandpa's quiet kindness inspire me to become a better person. What would Alice have shown me?

I want to know. I want to know what kind of antics she pulled as a child. I want to know how she fell in love with my Grandpa and what it was like to have three sons in a cold, small North Dakota town. I want to know if her death was a surprise or expected. I want to know how my Grandpa managed to take care of his sons while mourning his wife. I want to know how my dad felt about his stepmother from the beginning and how they became a family.

It's my story too. And I want to know.