Saturday, October 1, 2011


I was in the Target parking lot today (an activity that passes for exercising these days), working to get Declan out of the car when Minivan lady parked next to me hops out, barrels past and I'm like, whoa, lady with a baby here and she's all Yeah? TWINS, bitch! as she extracts her doublewide ride from the back of her Odyssey.

She didn't really say that. But her high pitched "oops!" as she squeezed past totally did.

So I'm staring into her open minivan, the twins' matching carseats locked and loaded, when I noticed a plastic tag affixed to the seat closest to me.

"Please wash your hands before touching mine" it read.


Do I hate it when people come up and touch my baby's hands? Yeah, kinda. But 2 things here. 1) I hate other things more, and I think trying to banish germs while wheeling your infant in a shopping cart around Target is about as logically sound as sleep training an infant at the Volvo dealership. And 2) at my core is my southern upbringing. Southerners don't say what we mean; we expect people to already know it and then quietly seethe when they go and do something to the contrary. You certainly don't just go and have it specially printed on a tag.

And really, what are you saying here? Do you offer a bottle of hand sanitizer clipped on the other side of that car seat? No. While your placard sends Joe Q Public's grubby little mitts in search of warning-free baby cheeks to infect with baby anthrax, you've made a safe getaway to the sitter, just in time to catch the matinee of Contagion.

Every mom's got their crazy re: baby threshold. What makes you batshit? The germs? The cough in the quiet house that wakes the baby? Republicans? Tell me.


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