The surprise existence

I was a surprise.

In January 1979, there was a blizzard. My dad was snowed in. My mom was snowed in. Everyone was snowed in.

I was born in October of that year. I was an interloper in a family that already consisted of a mom, a dad, and three kids (two girls and a boy), ages 10, 11, and 13. I was a late arrival, and as such, had already missed out on much of what my family had experienced. Or, more often than not, I am subjected to tales about things that occurred when I was an infant or toddler, with the expectation (on the part of the tale-teller) that I know exactly what they're talking about because, technically, I was there.

For example, I occasionally am forced to listen to my siblings tell stories about vacations to ridiculous roadside attractions in Kentucky, spent in the back seat of a Volkswagen Beetle (my parents owned like 17 of them). Or I'd hear about my brother's birthday party when my brother fell in a ditch or something, and a kid with a speech impediment ran around screaming "the biwthday boy is dead!"

Most recently, I joined my mom and brother for dinner on Saturday night. Mom was talking about how she took Sasha to some sort of doggie day spa. It was something like this:

Mom: ...And just GUESS who owns that spa!
Me: Um...?
Mom: Lupe von Goldenblatt! (not the actual name she used, but just as unrecognizable to me)
Me: (blink, blink)
My brother: Why, Bob, don't you remember Lupe*? She was in (our oldest sister's) class in grade school, and came by the house once when you were a baby!
Me: Once again, I don't know who the hell you're talking about...

Yeah, this happens pretty regularly.

Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with people reminiscing. In fact, I do a fair share myself (hence the title and general content of this blog). However, my mom specifically (although dad was definitely worse) takes it to a new level. Instead of just making a mental note that I wasn't alive and/or cognizant of my surroundings at the specific time she's thinking of, she'll keep going with it. I can even express this phenomenon somewhat mathematically. The longer my mom continues with the story involving people I don't know, the less I care. If graphed, it would look kind of like a ski slope.

Back to this conversation about the doggie day spa -- I zoned out for a bit. And when I came to again, my mom was discussing how Sasha's nails had been painted.