I was standing in line at customer service at a certain big-box store yesterday returning the 17th maternity coat I've ordered online that hasn't even come close to fitting, when I caught this adorable preschool-age girl staring knowingly at my (uncovered-by-anything-so-bulky-as-a-coat) belly.
"You know what's in there, don't you?" I smiled.
She nodded and pointed at the infant in the shopping cart next to her and said, "We have a baby, too! Her name is Brooklyn."
Having named my favorite childhood doll Baby Chicago, I was instantly enchanted. "What a pretty name! What's yours?"
I told her that's one of my very favorite names (which Dr. Husband would be hard pressed to use for our child and therefore I can share with you here), and she turned to her mom and said, "She is SO sweet."
It was like one of my great-aunts had come back to life in the form of a chatty three-year-old.
It made my day, and then the day got made again when I heard her mom saying to her as I left, "But remember, we don't ASK people if they have babies growing inside them, right?"
And Kennedy was all, "But why?"
But why, indeed. It beats telling someone they look like a "regular American."
photo courtesy imelenchon, morgueFile