Last night was the big, fancy annual event I put together for the Chamber. The decorations, purchased on a shoestring budget, looked magnificent, the girls were happily ensconced in a Governor’s Suite at The Sagamore with Nana and Ciocci Jeannie and standing on Sean’s arm, he in a dashing brown suit and me in a silver party skirt and daringly low cut black top, I felt incredible.
My responsibilities for the evening had settled down to moderate surveying of the room and the occasional huddle with band members and wait staff. Sean and I were strolling the room arm in arm and chatting with guests. It was a wonderful mix of business and pleasure, and remarkably, we sailed brilliantly through the different snippets of small talk with everyone from bank presidents and CEO’s to entrepreneurs and politician’s wives.
And then it happened…
After a little back and forth with one of the aforementioned bank presidents, and several other businessmen, talk inevitably turned to my pregnancy.
“Is this your first?” the bank president asked.
“No, we have two. It’s our third.” I answered.
“Wow, how old are the two at home?” he asked.
“Three and about 20 months,” I answered.
“Sooo, do you know what you are having?” A woman asked.
“Yes, another girl,” I said with a broad smile.
“Wow, four girls?” the banker asked.
I hesitated for a moment before saying, “I thought you were the banker. It’s our third.”
Everyone laughed and then another man standing with us said, “It’s a scientific fact that with families with three daughters or more the divorce rate grows exponentially.”
What the hell do you say to that?
“Hmm, I didn’t do well in biology, but I don’t think I had anything to do with determining gender,” I said lightly.
Sean jumped in and said, “It was my escape clause.”
“Seriously, way more divorces.”
We all tried to laugh, but honestly, it was awkward. I didn’t think to ask how many daughters he had…