We had a tremendous weekend, about which I’ve been looking forward to writing. It involved travel, music, a wedding, family, friends, lots of little people, and a little booze. But my two girls are asleep, one perhaps a more deeply due to two-month shots–proud to say that, unlike last time, I did not burst into tears when Evie’s face crumbled in pain. So I’m about to turn in, but quickly, because this is just too ridiculously obnoxious…
On the drive to the pediatrician’s, I was thinking that, despite making the mistake of getting on the scale last week, I’ve been good about psyching myself into feeling comfortable in my own postpartum skin. Woot!
So comfortable was I that I didn’t self-consciously suck in my tummy as I walked around a local coffee shop, bouncing my friend’s infant in my arms, ooo-ing and ahh-ing at all his distinct, adorable idiosyncrasies. An older woman approached me, “And when is your baby due?”
Straight-forwardly, and without animosity, I said the only thing that came to mind, “I’m not pregnant.”
“Uh. Oh, I see. Um, that was rude of me.”
I smiled at her, as if in agreement, and walked away. John later asked if I told her I was two months postpartum. No, better just let the woman feel uncomfortable, I thought. Can’t say my self-confidence didn’t take a stumble. Whatever.
A few snapshots of the Oppenheimer women from the weekend: