My Invisible Baby’s Invisible Daddy: July 1, 2003

In which I don’t know who the father is.

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Yesterday I went out to lunch with my family.

We dined at Leann Chin’s, a rather upscale restaurant downtown. It was quiet, and a relation of mine was talking loudly (she always does), so we were getting funny looks from the other diners as we talked and she half-shouted. At one point she went into a rant about something she had seen on a daytime talk show; apparently there was a girl on The Montel Williams Show who had been through five guys and five DNA tests and still didn’t know who her baby daddy was. (I love that phrase, “baby daddy.” But I digress.) Anyway, my relation was ranting about the stupidity of not knowing whose genes your baby shared. “I mean,” she said, turning to me and speaking at the top of her voice, “don’t you know who the father is?” And the question hung in the air, as the rest of the diners looked at us curiously and my family dissolved into muffled snorts of laughter. Thanks, relation.

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