At the deli counter of an outrageously overpriced foodie market, a snooty, overprocessed, and meticulously coiffed senior citizen looked at me in horror. Butter was strapped into his Moby Wrap, facing forward, and wiggling as though the beet salad in front of him were the best thing he’d ever seen.
[As always, I have no financial interest in mentioning a product I like. They have no idea who I am, I didn’t get a free product, I owned it before I began blogging, and I gain nothing from telling you Butter practically lives strapped to me in this wrap.]
She, the woman of the excessive care about her appearance, says, “Oh! He’s drooling” in the tone one might use to exclaim, “Oh! He’s seizing!” or “Oh! He’s choking and turning blue!”
Drooling. Small baby whose mouth never closes, whose teeth might or might not be razoring through his gums, and who genuinely thinks that at any moment he will be allowed to take the WHOLE world and stick it in his mouth, just to see if he can find any hidden nipples anywhere.
“Oh! He’s drooling,” she stammers. I believe she expects me to do something, like protect the market’s concrete floor from his sulfuric acid baby saliva.
“Yeah, he does that. He’s a baby,” I say with a blank look. I refuse the energy it takes to be polite, smile, or educate this idiot of leisure about how normal, unavoidable, and uneventful drooling is for a freaking four-month-old baby.
Today is not a screw-with-me kind of day. I know how to be polite. I just don’t want to. Because I’m tired of stupid people. Really, really, really I am. Of course he’s drooling, you dolt. And you just wasted one of the potentially delightful moments of my day. The choosing of brightly colored and tasty foodstuffs makes me happy. So shut your goat cheese hole and let me do my day.
On a brief walk, earlier the same day, a talkative nurse and her wheelchair-bound charge said hi to me, cooing at the delightful bundle sleeping on my chest. We talked a bit, and when I figured out that Jean, the seated neighbor, is blind, I took off Butter’s socks so she could feel his feet. And before that, talking with a Dad who’d had a rough morning with his children, I offered a sympathetic ear and some mildly amusing faux advice.
I’m not a nasty person by nature. I’m a big old softy. But I’m sick of stupid people.
“Oh,” she says the droolophobe. “How old?”
“Almost a year,” I answer, rounding up to a “shut the f— up” answer.
She looks shocked. I don’t care.
Screw her. She was probably ordering something with black truffle oil. And since she’s not sad or blind or cooing over my baby, she can suck it.
Next time, instead of organic hand santizer in a spray bottle, I’m carrying a vial of baby spit to atomize onto the world’s most daft.
“So shut your goat cheese hole and let me do my day” = LMAO with a twist of snorty glee!
Oh, how I love your writing.
Sorry the idiotic droolaphobe ruined your day. May she awaken from her next sleep in a ginormous pile of her own drool.
How old? He’s older than your can of hair spray.
I love you. You know that, right? Because you are the person kind enough to think of a Jean/Butter foot rub and the person snarky enough to tell cheese hole that your baby is 11-ish months old…all in the same day. You=awesome.
I love your blog. I just do.
Oooo! Brilliant! I want a spray bottle of baby spit, too!
Shut your goat cheese hole…I love it. Maybe she wanted a drooly open mouth kiss from Butter…heeeeee
I would have wiped him on the deli case. Just sayin’.
I was in a toy store today at the mall with my 2 kids, who were – shockingly – actually staying where I wanted them to and behaving for like 30 seconds.
So I looked childless, as a women walked up to a mom of twin 2.5yo’s and said to her (in a pissy pissy voice) “uh, I think your DAUGHTER is out there” and points to the mall entrance. The woman FLEW to the door in a panic to get her daughter.
As soon as her back was turned Righteous Bitch looks at me, points a finger to her head like she’s shooting herself and says “Ugh! SOME PEOPLE shouldn’t have kids”.
Seriously. She said this. Out loud.
In a TOY STORE.
Cause you know, it’s totally hard to lose track of one of your 2 kids in a toy store. Nothing to distract them there. And geez, who brings kids to toy stores anyway? What on earth would be there for the likes of them??
I gave her the Stink Eye and went to find my own kids so she wouldn’t poison them with her Holier Than Thou-Ness. God, I cannot stand stupid people.
If you sell your baby spit atomizer on Etsy, please send me the link.
Goodness, your baby drools? But whatever happens when he is invited to have tea with the Queen?
Yesterday I was getting some soup at the grocery store but was impeded by the woman getting the soup next to the soup I wanted, who was too busy yelling at her child to ladle. I stood next to her unobtrusively for thirty seconds when suddenly she spun her head around, Exorcist-style, and hit me with both sarcasm-barrels as she asked “Oh, am I IN YOUR WAY?” Please don’t turn into her!
I must have a can of toxic baby spit. I know several people who I need to use it on. Immediately.
I WANT DOUBLE SARCASM BARRELS!!11!11!!11!!
What an old goat! I wonder what would have happened if the drool got on her? Would it have melted her away, a la Wicked Witch of the West? Might have been worth seeing…
A vial of baby spit. Now that is powerful stuff. I think you have a market.
Awww yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. Someone was offended at my grocery store because she thought my little girl was a little boy: “Why don’t you dress her in pink so people can tell?” Cheese hole. Shut it. Yes.
LOL. As I say to anybody who would listen, mothers of small children have the get out of jail free card in my book to be snarky. In fact, I would have said, Why? I thought you old people do that all the time.