“I Swear I Know Who His Father Is”

Having six kids under sixteen in tow is basically a walking invitation for unsolicited commentary.

People feel remarkably free to offer thoughts on my uterus, family planning, and personal life in ways they wouldn’t dream of if I only had two children spaced a sensible four years apart. I’ve heard it all—“You know how that happens, right?” “You should really slow down.” “Are they all with the same guy?” and the ever-favorite: pitying silence paired with subtle head counts and judgmental glances.

Over the years, I’ve collected comebacks. Some clever, some sharp, and some born entirely from perimenopause and a dwindling supply of patience and desire to preserve other peoples comfort. For example, when a plumber got nosy about my fertility, I walked him through not only how babies are made but also where, and possibly when, in the very spot where he was standing. His face turned beet red, and I like to imagine he never asked another woman such a question again. .

You’re welcome, Mississippi women with plumbing needs.

But one day, in the summer of 2017, I was caught off guard—by a moment that even my sharpest sarcasm couldn’t wrangle.

The Scene

It was the summer of 2017: a day when my snarky arsenal was no match for the universe. I was in leggings and a sweatshirt, in a rush, and surrounded by my six kids—then ages 16, 11, 10, 7, 5, and 2. They were well-behaved, as usual since they had been educated in the sacred art of public reserve that is socially required of large quantities of kids in the company of 1 parent.

As we all know, there are days when the universe decides to make you its favorite joke and unfortunately, it was my turn to be the punchline. 

This particular day, we were standing in line at the bank I regularly went to when my two-year-old son—sweet, round-faced, curious—pointed to the man in front of us and loudly announced to the entirety of the place:

“That’s Daddy.”

The man turned around.

I froze.

Everyone else turned around too.

“Um… no, it’s not,” I quietly said, attempting to both correct my son and assure the entire line of people that I did, in fact, know who fathered my children.

But my son doubled down. Still pointing. Still sure..

“Daddy. That’s Daddy.”

Suddenly, the air was thick with unspoken thoughts:

That boy doesn’t even know who his daddy is.

Does she?

Are these all from different dads?

I wanted to dissolve. I smiled my “I’m totally fine, nothing to see here” smile while silently drafting my obituary.

I then had to sift through the remnants of my dignity and try to muster up even a shred of it because I still had to wait in line and pretend I didn’t feel like my entire motherhood resume had just been put up for public review and speculation.

But the universe wasn’t done.

Two days later, the pest control man came to the house.

My son followed him around, smiling and calling him—yes—“Daddy.” Again.

This child.

This darling child.

This child who lives with his actual father, sees him every day, and absolutely knows who he is was walking around the house calling strangers “Daddy” like I was starring in an episode of “You Are NOT the Father: Maury’s Homeschool Edition.”

I was mortified. Then bewildered. And finally, begrudgingly… humbled.

The truth?

I wasn’t seeing my child’s behavior clearly.

I was seeing it through the lens of my own insecurity—through the constant, quiet judgment that hangs in the air when you parent outside the expected mold.

I was interpreting his innocent curiosity as something shameful, but the shame wasn’t his—it was mine. And it was all borrowed from years of side-eyes and snide comments that made me expect judgment where there wasn’t any.

He was just exploring his world, the way toddlers do—with declarations, repetitions, and a strong belief that if you look like a daddy, and you’re nice, you probably are one.

He wasn’t calling me out.

He was calling out the best word he knew for the kind of men that look like what being a daddy meant to him.

And maybe that’s something to be proud of.

So now?

Now I laugh.

Because even when my dignity feels dented and my life feels like a live commentary reel that deserves its own laugh track, I know the truth of what really matters and it’s not found in the stares of strangers—it’s found in the soft, but sometimes sticky hands of the children beside me who call me (and only me) Mom. (To be real though, why don’t they do these things to their dad?!)

And if, in the meantime, I’ve permanently scared a plumber into never asking another woman how many kids she plans to have—then I’ve gone beyond raising a family. I’ve done a public service.

With love, perspective, and just enough filter left,

Emily

Ash and Bloom