Your Monday Balls...

Happy Monday!

   Everyone needs one of these.  A fat baby in a sink is a SURE way to cure whatever funk ails ye.  GAWD, I love a fat baby.  Good thing both of mine were little Michelin Men.  J

   Of course, this amusing pic led me to thinking about my roly little polies before they learned to anti-snuggle, which then segued me into all the creepy things complete strangers will say or do with a fat baby…  You know what I mean… you’er walking through the grocery store, focusing on finding the perfect Organic O Cereal handmade by Tibetan Sherpas (because at this stage you are still all freaked out about what they put in their mouths and are in total denial about their oral obsession with the bottoms of flip flops), and BAM!  Some crazy old lady, who tells you to call her “Grandma” because everybody ELSE calls her “Grandma” , (and this should make me feel secure because people who won't give you their REAL names always have the BEST intentions.  Like mobsters...) has got her pointy little fingers firmly imbedded in your child’s abundant pink thigh.  You first instinct is to tackle her to the floor while screaming like a Banshee and beating her head concave with a Mini Wheats Box… but you don’t and the following disturbing conversation ensues:

“Grandma” (heretofor known as Creepy Old Woman or C.O.W.) – “What a precious baby!” (still pinching and squishing whatever pudgy baby limb has the unfortunate position of being within smooshing distance.)

Me – “Thanks.” (Attempt to sound cheerful.  Fail miserably and end up sounding constipated.  Consider slapping her hand.)

C.O.W. – “I could just eat you up!  You’re all sugar, aren’t you?  Aren’t you? “(At this point Sprinkles would be shrieking in absolute fear and even Sass Monkey, who would make eyes at a sock puppet, would be looking a little dubious.)

Me – “Ummmm.  Thanks.”  (Awkward silence while pulling the cart out of groping distance.)

    

 It’s not the attention or the googly eyes that you make at my adorable bundle of opinions and trouble that is upsetting. For all of you who want to compliment me on the perfection of my progeny, please, feel free.  The truth can only set you free, right?  It’s the unsolicited touching that makes me feel all pointy and violent.  I come from deeply ingrained social bubble people.  My children are born with bubbles.  Don’t invade the bubbles, people.  Shouldn’t you at least let them smell your hand first, a courtesy you would extend to any unfamiliar dog, before you go poking and prodding?  What if they bite?  They might!  I have heard the claim that my children were raised by wolves.  Or in a barn.  Or naked.  Which is true.  And Sprinkles is snake-on-a mouse fast and teething, so C.O.W.s… you have been warned. 

On a side note:

   Why are babies always compared to cookies, candy, sugar crusted gum balls, or whatever?  Do you KNOW what comes out of my child… possibly even right this second?  The drool isn’t sweet either.   I mean, it’s flavored, but not in a good way. (You would know that if you ever have been lucky enough to not remember to close your mouth when playing “Up High!”.  Like a chicken in the rain… )