Kindred

When I take the baby to the grocery store, I always have to plan at least an extra 5-10 minutes for people to stop and oogle over her cuteness.  People just love babies, especially when they are as tiny as Daisy.   I can’t say I blame them, I spend quite a bit of time oogling over her cuteness too.  The disappointing thing is that at least 80% of the people who stop us to chat and take a peek say something stupid.  I mean really stupid.  

Here are a few examples:

“What country is she from?” (Right, because she’s brown, she must not be American.)

“Awww, she’s got your [fill in the blank]”  (Come ON people.  I’m fair skinned, redheaded, freckled and Irish.  My babies are very dark, black curly-haired beauties.  Genetics can play some crazy tricks, but not that crazy.)

“Is she okay in that thing [meaning my wrap]? Can she breathe?” (No, she can’t. I’m actually suffocating my baby right in front of you.)

On my most recent trip, I had gotten all three of the above comments before I even made it to the dairy section.  I was exhausted and ready to get the heck out of there when another lady approached me.  We went through all the typical questions “Is it a girl? What’s her name? How old?” before she surprised me with, “You a foster parent?”

“Wow.  Yes I am.  No one ever asks that!” 

“I could tell by your smile.  I am too.” 

(double wow. What a sweet thing to say! Instant watery eyes)

“I have 3”

“I have three too!”

And so began a lovely conversation with a kindred soul in front of the milk case.  A reminder that as different as my path often feels, I’m not alone.  Gosh, I needed that.