Friday, April 8, 2016

Babymooning with my phone turned off.

Deep in babyland over here. We've been diligently resting. David has been trying to recreate the Chinese tradition of Confinement here, bringing me water and bagels and cookies (probably not exactly what they eat in those fancy postpartum spas, but I've been loving it). I have been keeping my phone in airplane mode and telling people we aren't ready for visitors yet -- basically, following midwives' orders. Sorry if you're one of the 18 voicemails I haven't listened to. Will do soon, I swear.

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We went out yesterday for a newborn hearing screening and stopped at a big box store on our way home. A cashier reacher her grubby fingers into the baby carrier and put them on the wee boy's face -- who does that? I probably wouldn't have minded so much if the following conversation hadn't also taken place:

Her: How old are you?
Me: Thirty seven.
Her: And that baby is yours? Whoah! My husband wanted another one, but I was already thirty-six, and I was, like, no way!

I laughed, and somehow David managed to bite his tongue.

What's wrong with people? I mean, I know in the Middle Ages, I would have been a grandmother (or be dead) by now, but seriously ... I'm still in my thirties. Sure, my lower back kind of wishes I'd done this baby thing fifteen years ago, but my passport disagrees.

Blogging from the chemo lab.

Gooooood Monday morning, y'all! I'm writing from the Norton Cancer Institute where, for the first time in months, I'm able to ac...