The setting: The café up the street from our house which the baby and I use as a latte-providing destination to motivate us to go for walks in the cold Seattle winter rain—though today it was gloriously sunny and too warm for a coat.
The characters: Me, my two-month-old daughter, and a hippieish man in his sixties with scraggly facial hair and a slightly wild glint in his eye.
Hippie man: Oh, wow. A baby. Are you nursing?
Me [crossing my hands in front of my chest while giving him the finger]: Am I nursing? Are you seriously asking me that? What the fuck business is it of yours?
Me [in reality]: Uh—yeah.
Hippie Man [Giving the double thumbs-up, a la The Fonz]: Right on. There’s no point in having a baby if you’re not going to…
Me [Trying to cut him off by wheeling the stroller past him and towards the door]: Uh, huh.
Hippie Man: That’s great, that’s great. He’ll be immune to everything.
Me: Um. I hope so.
Hippie Man: No really, he will! That’s how it works!
Me: Go back to the sixties and leave the world’s mothers alone!
Me [in reality, hustling us out the door]: --- .