I stand confidently at the sales rack, flipping with authority through the discounted baby clothes, wondering why such tiny clothes are full price in the first place. My perfectly choreographed clearance rack attack was honed long ago. I worry for a moment about how dirty the hangers are, realizing that I forgot the antibacterial in the car; I quickly dismiss these worries as a small price to pay for scoring a sweater on sale. My physical memory engages and I am confident, familiar...this feels so damn good. Most of the skills that I use in my daily life now are new ones that I'm still developing a rhythm for. (How do I still sometimes spill milk when making a bottle?)
A few swipes into my quest, a stroller-contained toddler with bright eyes and a screechy voice greets Ella with a series of insistent "hellos". Ella removes her pacifier and responds with her own series of sounds. (Do other toddlers recognize pacifier-removal as the sign of respect that it is?) I am grateful for the happy distraction and try to smile at the Other Mother but she has abandoned her stroller for the swimsuits in the next aisle. As the minutes pass, the girls continue to play with one another and I manage to catch Other Mother's eye. What a lovely little girl she has and how old is she? The requisite questions flow over my tongue, a well-rehearsed mother script that I'm shocked can still pass for sincere. Other Mother responds, "Uh huh...24 months. Excuse me, do you have this bathing suit in a smaller size?" (I scold myself for judging her for saying 24 months instead of 2 years - even after becoming a mother, this still sounds pretentious and/or infantilizing to my ear.)
I wait for a moment for Other Mother to reciprocate; surely she has noticed that I, too, am here with a lovely little girl. Our silence is drowned out by our daughters' excited exchange. I compliment Other Mother on her selection, determined not to leave without a nice word being said about my child. I convince myself that it is for Ella's benefit and not my own. I know the scan is coming long before I feel Other Mother’s eyes examining my engagement ring and wedding band for the 4 Cs, my diaper bag for brand, and my outfit. (I am relieved that I wore my “good” jeans and wonder what kind of strange post-mating ritual we’re engaged in). Other Mother’s gaze finally lands on the cherubic face of the intended recipient of her praise; will she notice her cabbage patch face, her soulful eyes, her curly locks? Ella, in the interim, has taken to expressing her delight by blowing raspberries. Her toothy grin is set atop a pink chin glistening with spittle. Other Mother is horrified, and I am embarrassed....then embarrassed for my embarrassment. She turns on her heel and silently disappears into mall oblivion.
Once we're free of the cramped store I take Ella out of the stroller and we walk hand-in-hand describing our day. She is confident, joyful and entirely unscathed by the Other Mother encounter. Her hand in mine, she is sure of her place in the world and uninterested in outside opinions (for the moment). We talk about how great we are together and whisper plans for our next adventure. Everything true and good and right in this lives in these moments and the world fades away.
I consider this conflict of my own making with new eyes. Even if Other Mother was exactly as I judged her to be (and judge her I did), the delicate dance of peer-mother interactions begs examination. While the compliments that I paid to the sweet girl with the doe eyes were sincere, was my motivation in giving them insincere? Was I driven by the expectation to receive compliments in return, or simply offended when Other Mother deviated from the socially agreed-upon script? Is the script changing?
I don’t have any answers to these questions, but I do think they are important to ask. In the meantime, I'm going to take a cue from my daughter: know my worth and move on!
