When I was a TV news reporter and I needed a “man-on-the-street” interview, Starbucks was my go-to place. Not only could I get my latte fix, I could almost always find an Average Joe, enjoying some joe with an opinion on the national story/city council vote/election result I was covering. Weird things happen to me at Starbucks. I’m not sure if that shows I spend entirely too much time there, or if Starbucks is just a good sampling of the public, thus resulting in better odds of weirdness.

I’ll confess, I had a strange request of the barista. You see, I was helping with a playgroup outside of the Starbucks in the common area of the shopping center. It’s an outdoor shopping/dining location in our city with a grassy area for children where my workout group frequently hosts playgroups. This week’s theme was bubbles. As one of the hosts I went to the dollar store and got some bubbles. I got my daughter this bubble gun thing from Target on clearance for the playgroup. She was SO excited. As toys are, it was packaged so that no human adult could open it without performing surgery to the packaging. Of course, the bubbles were blowing and I had no scissors. The three-year-old was getting anxious. I told her to hang tight with the other moms.

I ducked into the Starbucks where they practically know my order. I asked if I could borrow some scissors to open the package. The barista had no scissors, but did have a box cutter to open all the pre-packaged goodies we enjoy. I thanked her and started cutting the thick plastic straps choking this cheap toy.

That’s when I heard, “Careful!” from a voice behind me. I was confused. Surely no stranger was scolding me!? I glanced over to see a man in his fifties waiting for his drink. His tone was patronizing, like I was his 10-year-old daughter and I needed to be aware of the dangers of Exacto-knife usage before my Girl Scout camp-out. I ignored him and kept cutting.

He tried again to get my attention and be clever, only it was pretty demeaning. He said, “Whoa! A woman with a knife! Look out!” He went on to chuckle at his own joke and look around to see if anyone else agreed. When I still paid him no mind he said, trying to be funny, “I’m just gonna get out of the way so I don’t get hurt.” I didn’t look up and said, “You’re fine.” He got his drink and walked out of the store, looking at me like I was the stankest bitch on the planet for not yukking it up at his brilliance.

Sir, did you think that you were the funniest, most clever man in Starbucks that day? Did you just have to hear your own voice and weigh in on what I was doing?  Did you want me to giggle at your condescending comments like a sweet little woman? I bet you never would have never spoken a word if it were my husband opening the toy or any man using a knife. You are not my dad. I’m a grown woman who knows how to open a package with a box cutter. Sure, It was kind of weird that I was doing it in Starbucks,  but understandable with the crowd outside and certainly not worth commenting on.

I got the toy open and the kids had a great time. This little encounter really wasn’t a huge deal and had little impact on my life except for writing this blog post. Maybe he was just trying to be funny. It didn’t really hurt my feelings, it just annoyed me. I could have done without, the “Oh, you’re a typical bitch.” look that he shot me. Maybe I’m making too much of it. Really, I feel sorry for him that patronizing women is a way that he gets a laugh. What do you think?

Back when I was working full time I would constantly find reminders on my clothing that I wasn’t just an employee, but a mother. My babies made sure they left their mark somewhere. I remember a paci in my blazer pocket, a princess sticker on my leg or spit-up on my blouse. Being the sloppy klutz I am, these were usually after I had already spilled coffee on myself.

I got to thinking about Emily. Emily is my former co-worker on maternity leave after the birth of her first baby. She is soft spoken, kind-hearted and fiercely witty. Emily is an incredibly talented writer and I always enjoyed working with her.

Emily holding Henry when he was just 3 mos. old. I was only back at work a week when I realized my new calling. This was during that week.

One morning in the kitchen we were brewing coffee. She was being very polite when she said, “Amy, I was just going to tell you that you have something on your chest right there.” She pointed to my collar bone. I touched something hard but sticky and pulled it off my skin. I looked at my fingers in horror. I held a half-dried, smeared booger. Yep, that’s about right.

I recalled earlier that morning my snot-nosed little girl had smashed her face into me in some traumatic, tearful fit.

Now that I’m part of a yoga pants-clad army of stay-at-home moms, the smears and stains on my clothes are less of a big deal. I think babies want everyone to know, no matter their mama’s job, she’s a mama first. They leave their boogers to prove it. Please tell me I’m not the only one with dried boogers on them.

I was back at the doctor’s office this week. Fever, aches, exhaustion. Oh, and a red and swollen boob. It was mastitis for the second time since Henry was born. Needless to say I felt awful when I was in line to check out after the OB/GYN explained that you can get it when your baby is 6 months old, not just when they’re newborns. I was miffed because this bout of mastitis could be because my little biter has teeth now and it could be injuring my nipples enough to cause an infection. I didn’t want to complain about him sleeping through the night more often, but good Lord I’m getting backed up! Yeah, that could be a contributing factor as well.

My little biter with a booger in his nose. Cute, though.

So, you can imagine my mood as I stood with Henry in the stroller in this line, preparing to cough up a copay. In front of me a little girl of about four came darting between her pregnant mom and her dad. With unbridled enthusiasm and a sparkly Dora The Explorer shirt she squealed over Henry and reached into his stroller with her grubby little hands to poke him. Her parents pleaded with her to stop touching my baby. In my head I silently pleaded with Henry, “Bite her! I know you can do it. My nipples are proof!”

Henry did not bite her. He was darling and smiley like he most often is. The girl’s dad continued to tell her to keep her hands off Henry. The little girl explained she was getting a baby sister as she pointed at her mom’s belly. The dad soon became entranced with my child, as I assume everyone does. It’s what he said next that shocked me. He looked at my son and said in a baby voice, “I wish we could trade! Your mom probably wouldn’t like that, but I want to trade!”

What?!

I thought it might be the fever  messing with my hearing, but no. This jerk just said in front of his daughter that he wanted to trade children with me. In jest or not, that is totally wrong. I wanted to grab his sweet, well-meaning daughter, even with her grubby hands and tell her she is loved for who she is.

Maybe it was the boob infection, but I took a look at this idiot and decided it was okay to be wildly bitchy and judgmental. He had on sweat pants, socks with sandals and adult braces. This man’s saving grace has to be his pregnant wife/girlfriend/baby mama. She turned to him as he went on about my son and said, “You’re getting two girls. Get over it!”

Thank God. Good luck, lady. After you straighten his teeth out, get him out of those socks and straighten out his views on having daughters. Oh, and I hope your second baby is not a nipple biter.

Sometimes I’m really proud to say this, and sometimes I feel super guilty saying this after hearing the horror stories of my friends with Princess-Kate-Like-Morning-Sickness. You ready for this?

I went my entire first pregnancy without puking.

It’s true. It was crazy. Conception through delivery, no barfing. I was queasy and uncomfortable in the first trimester, but it never resulted in toilet hugging sessions. I felt like Jerry Seinfeld in that episode of Seinfeld where he explained he hadn’t thrown-up since 1980. It was 1993 by that time. That’s a huge vomitless accomplishment if you ask me.

When I made it through the first trimester this time I thought I was in the clear. No such luck. Here’s what went down, well, came back up…

Monday I had an event for a client at work where I was filming a presentation. A large part of my job is video work, stemming from my news shooting and editing days. We were at a very nice local hotel for the event. I got there early and had everything set up and ready to go. The woman I was working with was very kind and we chatted about families and I mentioned that I was expecting my second baby. As it often happens, when you tell someone you’re pregnant, they offer you food. She walked me over to the snack table of charming carnival food the hotel had on display for the event. They had soft pretzels ya’ll. Soft freakin’ pretzels. I suddenly needed something salty and was excited to indulge. I tweeted out this pic on Instagram…

That’ll teach me to brag. That’ll also teach me to dip anything in mustard, a condiment I’ve long had an aversion to. The 90 minute presentation got underway and I happily panned and zoomed across the room. The speaker’s remarks were interesting and I learned a lot. I only ate about half of the pretzel. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. About halfway in I felt some rumbles. I got really hot and then really cold. I started feeling dizzy. I looked at the mirror over the snack table. Ooph! Pale. I looked down at what was left of the pretzel next to me. Ugh! I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me. I wiped sweat off my head. Oh God! No! Not here.

I quickly zoomed out, left the camera rolling and tried not to run, but just walk out of the room with any dignity I had left under the sweat. When I hit the hallway I sprinted to the restroom. I got to the first stall in the ladies room of this four-star hotel and made like a drunk in a first-star hotel. I cursed the pretzel the whole time.

Just the smell of mustard could do me in until this baby is born. I’m thinking this may have been just something disagreeing with me, not morning sickness. So maybe I can just say I made it through two pregnancies with no morning sickness? Is that too braggy? Yeah, maybe I’ll just shut up.

Oh hey! We’re homeless and spending two nights in a hotel while we finalize things for one house and then move into another.  It’s a tad chaotic, but fun.  We’re making the most of it.

We’ve been having a lot of discussions with Charlotte about babies, I had to share this recent conversation:

Me: “Charlotte, what do babies do?”

Her: “Um…they cwy!”

Me: “That’s right! They cry. What else do they do?”

Her: “Um…they sweep!’

Me: “That’s right! They sleep. What else?”

Her: “They crap!”

::pause::

::look at Greyson as his mouth drops open::

Me: “Charlotte! That is not a nice thing to say! Where did you hear that?”

Her (looking confused): “They crap!”

Greyson: “Charlotte that’s not how we say that.”

Her (looking confused): “They crap der hans!”

Us (backpeddling, feeling relieved): “Oh! Yes! Babies do clap their hands! That’s so good!”

Charlotte went on to sing a rousing rendition of “If You’re Happy And You Know It Crap Your Hands.” You can imagine Greyson’s hand motions to this version of the song later in the night after Charlotte had gone to bed.