I popped into the drugstore to pick up a couple things and was standing at the cash, Mary on my hip.
“Aw, how cute,” said the cashier, “How many months? Eight?”
I was fumbling around in my purse, digging and digging for my bank card. If you don’t know, why guess? Anyway, I was grateful to no longer care in the least if a stranger thinks my baby looks too small, too young, too bald, too cold or too hungry.
“Twelve actually. She just turned a year. Do I swipe or insert?”
“Oh.” She looked taken aback. “So is she walking yet?”
There was a weird glint in her eye, a tug at the corner of her mouth.
“Yes, she’s just starting to walk,” I say, punching in my PIN code.
“She looks like a boy,” she said. And here it comes. “But I noticed her pink socks.”
So proud. She was so proud that she noticed the socks and was able to correctly guess at the baby’s sex so as not to offend me by guessing wrong. She was so proud that she had to brag about how she could tell my baby was a girl even though she clearly looks like a boy. Because that’s so much better.
Isn’t it so good to not care about this kind of thing anymore? Ohmygod.