Yesterday in the Macy’s elevator:
Old Woman: Wow, you’ve got quite a crew there! How old is she?
Me: 16 months.
Old Woman: And the other one’s so tiny! How old?
Me: One week.
Old Woman: Wow, and it looks like you’re working on another one in there! (points to my leftover baby stomach)
Ok – so I know what you’re thinking. And usually a comment like this would be enough to send me into an emotional tailspin. I mean, she didn’t even pause to do the basic math and figure out there’s absolutely no humanly possible way that I could have a one week old and be pregnant enough again to show. She just assumed by my still there obvious baby bump that the only plausible explanation is that I’m set to deliver at any moment – no questions asked.
As I teared up and whipped around to share my insult with Nick I immediately saw the wheels turning as he was already calculating the amount of man hours it would take for him to undo the damage this woman has just caused. He radiated fear and panic as he realized that once the elevator doors opened I was probably going to bolt under a rack of clothing where I would lay sobbing in the fetal position for hours while he tries to talk me off the ledge with a screaming baby in each arm. It was enough to make me laugh out loud.
I fell in love with him all over again when he suggested the only way to remedy this situation is to stop for McFlurries on the way home.