I went shopping at Wholefoods today. While I was descending in the elevator with Wren asleep in the moby-wrap a gray-haired woman wearing something Tibetan said:
"three months?" (Guessing the age of the baby is a common segue into conversation with a parent) so I replied:
"11 weeks"
"Ooh" she said "A big one."
He is big. He's a fat squishy warm lump of himself and I am proud whenever anyone comments on it, which is often. It feels as if we are doing something good, something we can control, as if making him big and fat we can outrun the tick-tock obstructions which are going on in there.
Another day at a coffee place in U-Village I met a woman who has a grandbaby of a similar age and because the line was long and slow and she was going on and on about their experiences in the early months I mentioned the "heart surgery" experience. It stopped the conversation - perhaps our common ground receded. She peered at him a bit and said "you would never guess" and then smiled too much and looked at the menu attentively.
Meanwhile two gay guys with a poodle kept smiling at me and one mouthed "lovely" at Wren in his jade silk sling.
The cat is snoring which reminds me I should nap while Wren is. Frost is due home soon and we have a date to count 100 toy cars into a bag in anticipation of the 100th day of kindergarten tomorrow.
I shall take a picture.
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