The Mom Reaction

We've devoted no small amount of time here at the Pretty to what We - yes, the Royal We will be in effect for the whole of the royal wedding week - look like, most recently in our attempts to get our Operation MILF behind in gear.

On the flip side, I'm discovering that there's a Mom Reaction others give me when I'm out & about with Master P. It's less cut and dry than the Smug Married Genuflection I've discussed here before - to review, that's the once-over young married women give one another that inevitably goes (1) Hair; (2) Shoes; (3) Engagement Ring; (4) Handbag (with emphasis on step #3).

I may have to re-title my tagline ". . . ever so slightly more blonde than nature intended."

First & foremost, I've been surprised with how many more people approach me when I'm out with Master P. I'm not sure what I had expected - the given, visible horror of airline passengers seated next to a baby, perhaps, or at very least the "If I don't make eye contact that mom won't sit next to me lalalala I'm not heeere" Southwest Airlines tactic.

On the contrary, apparently babies are the gateway drug to small talk, and here I'd been thinking it was vodka this whole time .  . . in any event, this new conversational prop is a welcome development for me, a recovering introvert. 

The Mom Reaction isn't as easily divided along gender lines as I would have suspected - while a few more women gurgle in Master P's direction than the men, it isn't by much. 

And if you're guessing that it's the women who follow up the Mom Reaction with offers to assist with things like getting the stroller through a store entrance - no small feat, by the way - you'd generally be wrong. While there have been a few incredibly kind women - generally of grandmother look & age - who go out of the way not only to coo but also to help, it's the menfolk who are doing the literal heavy lifting. They look with less interest than they once did, but with more chivalry; though I miss the former in my weaker moments, the former more than makes up for it most days. 

As for the men in the non-chivalrous minority, their reaction can only be described as "flight" - their furtive darting down the nearest, b-a-b-y free aisle is nothing short of comical. I want to reassure them, "It's ok; I'm almost positive the baby isn't yours," except that my approach would only guarantee further panic in Aisle 10.

Lest you think it's only those few boys darting away from the b-a-b-y, a few of you ladies are also very visibly afraid. It's ok - I was there a few years ago myself. I promise to try & not laugh as you look at Master P as if pregnancy might be contagious.

Overall, it must be said that I've been happily surprised by all of this. Though it threatens my lifelong philosophy of not liking people a great deal, I admit this mom business is softening my rough edges a bit, social graces included.

(Emphasis on "a bit" - I still enjoy the terrified look in a fellow passengers' eyes as Master P & I board a plane. If only they knew I'm more scared than they...)