Column: That uncomfortable moment when your mom is mistaken for your wife

It’s happened twice in 50 years and, while the number is low, it’s evidence enough for me.

Evidence of what?

Evidence that the fates are messing with my noggin. Two for 50 is negligible, I get it.

Still, it has alarm bells going off in my brain. To borrow a line from Buffalo Springfield: “There’s something happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear.”

Here’s the deal: on two occasions — in 50 years — my mother has been misidentified by a third party as my wife. That’s way too creepy. Call it collusion, conspiracy, conundra whatever; what it isn’t is copasetic.

It exudes the “eeww” factor.

In the spirit of full disclosure, my mother is 19 years, 10 months older than I. I’m her firstborn.

Mom was born in March of 1924 in Coffeyville, Kan. I came along in January of 1945 at St. Joseph Hospital in Orange.

Our first instance of irresponsible matrimonial assumption (IMA) occurred in May of 1964 when mom was 40 and I 19. She was youthful, vibrant and attractive. The second was last week when she was, ahem, 94.

Now, which do you suppose hit me the hardest? More later.

I shrugged off both incidents but secreted deep within was a wounded spirit. My world was rocked.

My mom’s a looker. Always has been. But a gap of 19 years and 10 months is way too much to overlook.

My 18-year-old grandson, Ethan, is in much the same boat as I. His buddies at school think his mom, Jade — my daughter — is, well, “hot.” I, of course, acknowledge that my daughter is beautiful. She’s a former college cheerleader, high school cheerleader and homecoming princess and, at 17, was Miss California in the 1993 America’s National Teenager pageant.

Jade, at 42, is 23 years, six months Ethan’s senior. She can still fit into her college cheerleading outfit, and her three teenage daughters are spot-on doppelgangers. Together they look like quadruplets. I’m forever doing double takes.

Poor Ethan. It’s not easy being a plain brown shoe in a world of glass slippers.

“She’s just mom,” he shrugs, embarrassment evident in his voice. “I’m not comfortable that my buddies think she’s cute.”

I feel your pain, bro!

In May of 1964 I was home on leave after completing Army boot camp at Fort Ord in Monterey. One fresh O.C. morning I donned my Class A uniform and mom and I set out for the Bank of America branch in Costa Mesa.

I wanted to open an account so I could send money home for college. I thought the uniform would enhance my credibility.

“So, Mr. Carnett,” said the branch manager from behind his big mahogany desk, “do you wish to open a joint account with your wife?”

“Wife? Uh, no, I don’t have a wife.” I was flustered and perplexed.

“Oh, forgive me. I naturally assumed the lovely lady next to you is your wife.”

Whoa. What? Wait!

“My wife? She’s my mom!”

“Sorry. Your mom looks quite young.”

Mom thoroughly enjoyed the conversation. She even blushed. And she’s never let me forget it.

Last week, I accompanied her to her physical therapy session. I watched from the sidelines.

“Oh, are you Mrs. Carnett’s husband?” asked a female attendant, all googly-eyed.

“What? No, I’m not her husband, I’m her son!”

“Really?” She couldn’t resist digging the hole deeper. “Your mom could pass as your wife. She looks great.”

Yeah … for 94! So, OK, she doesn’t look a day over 90. What’s that make me? Don’t answer.

Once, when Ethan was 3 and his sister, Emma, was a year old, Jade and I went shopping. I carried Ethan while Jade pushed Emma in a stroller. Jade was 28, I was 58.

A couple approached us from a side aisle.

“My, what beautiful children,” the woman cooed to my daughter.

“Thank you,” Jade responded.

IPA alert!

“It’s obvious that your husband is crazy about his boy. Look at them. The resemblance is striking.”

Jade blanched. “Oh, he’s not my husband,” she sputtered. “He’s my dad!”

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.