Son Of A ‘Sen

(My boyfriend and I have been dating for a few weeks, but things are getting serious, fast, so it’s time to have the “please tell me we aren’t related” discussion, before we move ahead. As we’re both clearly of northern European descent, it is a slight worry. Names have been changed, but the sentiment is the same.)

Me: “Do you have any Webers in your family?”

Boyfriend: “No.”

Me: “Any Kleins?”

Boyfriend: “Nope!”

Me: “Mayer?”

Boyfriend: “Nuh-uh.”

Me: “Lamberts?”

Boyfriend: “Nope, the only Germans I have are Fischers.”

Me: “Okay, well, that’s my dad’s family back to the great-great-grandparents, so I think we’re good there. How about Petersen?”

Boyfriend: “Uh… Yeah.”

Me: “Well, crap. Who’s a Petersen?”

Boyfriend: “My mom.”

Me: *disappointed, because this guy was really something special* “Dang it! My mom’s a Petersen, too.”

(We both kind of mope for a minute, before a thought strikes me.)

Me: “Wait, with an ‘en’ or an ‘on’?”

Boyfriend: “’On.’ I mean, it was ‘en’ before we came through Ellis Island, but that was like four generations back, at least. We’re Norwegian.”

Me: “Oh, thank heaven! We’re Danish! And that line came over three generations back.”

(Cue a round of relieved laughter before we continue, and ensure that we’re not related for at least four generations on all sides. We’re fine, and get married only five months later. So, of course, at the wedding reception, my new brother-in-law gets clever.)

Brother-In-Law: “Hey, Peterson!”

(A good portion of the crowd turned, some rising halfway before they realized what was going on. My uncle smacked him lightly upside the head.)