The Ranks of the Ranks

I'm a talker. You will always know how I feel, where I stand, what I'm thinking - whether you ask me or not. I can imbue my chattiness onto anybody. My taciturn dad and I carry on over lengthy breakfasts. And an old boyfriend knew whenever it was me calling when his fortress of a dad would talk for 20 minutes before turning the phone over.

Now, Husband is nearly as quiet as my dad. He comes by it honestly, having descended from stoic Germans that consider the discussion of feelings and thoughts, well, verboten. While we were engaged, Husband's grandfather stopped me during a party to tell me he liked me. I was happy to start a verbose conversation about our relationship, really solidify this bond we had going. But before I could get rolling, he threw out, "You're a lot better than that other dingbat he was going to marry."

So, no bond solidification that day.

And I say with all affection that Dad1 fully inhabits his Teutonic roots. His stoicism is nearly legendary and completely immune to my charm. So I should not have been surprised at Husband's reaction when I asked, what was to his mind, an inane question during a wedding we attended six months after Daughter was born. Watching the bride, I erupted in tears.

"Do you think," I sobbed, very close to the ugly cry, "that Infant Daughter will leave me someday to get married?"

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," he replied, very serious and very perplexed. Imagine what he's like with people he doesn't care about.

It should, therefore, come as no surprise, that Son is exactly the same. He injured his eye at Thanksgiving. A traumatic visit to the eye doctor ensued. Son had to go back to the doctor last week.

I'm his mother. I know he's nervous. How? Because his grandfather and father have taught me to read between the lines. Gauging their feelings is like searching for the prize in the sugar cereal. You have to push aside the fluff they put out to find what you're looking for.

"How do you feel about going to the doctor, Son?" I ask.

And he says, "What do you mean?" while his father beams with Germanic pride.

"You're not supposed to show your feelings, Vulcan," I grumble.

I feel like God is laughing at me, as though he said to me, "You like Husband? I'll give him to you in spades, girlfriend." I'm pretty defeated, until I hear Daughter talking to Dad1. She's explaining that she'd like a pink pony, a real one. Dad1 logically points out there's no such thing. But she chatters on, oblivious to his sensibility. And after a bit, her magic pays off.

"Your Pa will find you a pink pony. You want one? Your Pa will find one. Of course we can find one....."

Like I said. I can infuse my chattiness to anybody....