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The Drummer is not adopted

July 24, 2014 - Paul Giannamore
Amid all the stuff a family deals with when nuptials are within 10 weeks are things like living arrangements. Moving out. New furniture. Job considerations. Wedding invitations. Guest lists. What kind of chicken or beef will be served.

And the most vital: Convincing the young man that indeed his parents are his biological parents and he wasn’t adopted, even though photos from his infancy are quite rare compared with the library-filling volumes of such photos of his sister.

The whole topic arose during the past couple of weeks because, as he is finally cleaning his room after 23 years. The Drummer began looking for old photographs. Apparently it’s got something to do with his intended’s upcoming bridal shower (my God! They try to invite men to these things nowadays?) or some other wedding-related function that I don’t quite understand.

Frankly, I checked out of the planning process weeks ago, pondering that wonderful day when all that extra space in the back bedroom of the house would be mine. Mine, that is, assuming that I keep The Boss from turning it into her Doctorate in Stuff Pablo Will Never Understand Graduate Education Study Suite. It should be the Simply PabloG Suite, Where Fne Writing is Done in Peace. OK, where the stuff that fills this space is spewed into a computer with fineness occasionally accidentally stumbled upon.

But the topic keeps coming up. There are lots of photos of toddler Drummer and wobbly baby Drummer and even one of those embarrassing naked bathtub chubby baby Drummer photos, but none of absolute infancy, in the crib, with the “Baby Boy Giannamore” tag above his head as the good ladies of the old Ohio Valley Hospital swaddled him in a little blue jumpsuit bodysock thing and laid him down to rest.

I know they did that. He could ask his grandparents, who were there, but they’ve all left us in the ensuing 23 years. I remember that moment distinctly. I wigged out when they handed me my son. Second and it turned out last kid, only son. What a feeling, I remember. Dad had to haul me off to grab a burger, so afraid was he that I would pass out after having been handed a son after not eating through a day of labor that involved me standing around doing the Useless Man in the Delivery Suite thing.

The Boss was calm as could be.

The Boss just wanted to hold the new baby boy and have lasagna. I remember that distinctly. It happened. Just because there isn’t a photo record doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

I could Photoshop a bunch of little Drummer heads onto his sister’s pictures from that post-newborn era. They looked so much alike that sometimes that The Boss and I have to study the photos to be sure which kid we are looking at. He’s the taller one now. With the beard. The wedding planning process continues unabated, in high gear, as I stand in a cloud of dust at the curb, watching the wedding approach. Guess there’s a tux fitting I need sometime during the next 10 weeks.

And I recognize the whole nonchalance toward this late stage of the wedding planning game I had been so intent upon for much of the past year is some kind of mental game I’m playing, triggered by his packing and cleaning. It’s a defense mechanism.

I know when all his stuff has moved out, eventully I will sit alone on the floor in the middle of that big empty ex-bedroom that I plan on using as a mancave unless it is stolen as a Doctoral Graduate Education Womancave first, and I will contemplate the passage of 23 years. And the next era of life, where we’re father and son homeowners and married guys, which will preclude the time when he becomes father-son and I become grandfather-father. Or that time I hope never approaches where he has to make decisions about where to put me.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to let yinze in here. This is the empty room of the near future in my head. Where fine thoughts are accidentally stumbled upon and vanish while the silly ones hang out for at least the medium term.

When do those invitations go out again?

 
 

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