Today I walked into our neighborhood coffee shop, Phoscao, a little lighter than usual. It was a nanny day, and for once I didn’t have Oliver strapped to me or in the stroller in front of me. I anticipated owners Kin and Kam’s disappointed reaction upon seeing me so unencumbered, but they still managed a smile. While they made my coffee, I scanned the shop to see if anyone I knew was there, and sure enough a couple of moms I talk to at the playground had taken over the back bench with their babes.
“Hi Chandra! Hi Amy!” I said, approaching their table and dodging their little ones who were scrambling about on the floor.
Blank stares.
I stepped closer, imagining there must be sun in their eyes or that I was too far away. Nope—nothing.
For some reason, I adopted a querying tone: “I’m Oliver’s mom? Kiley?”
Bright smiles of comprehension: “Oh yes, yes! Kiley! Kiley, how's it going? Where's Oliver?”
From then on, the conversation was smooth. But it was a bit stunning to not be recognized by people you chat with a couple of times a week—sometimes about quite personal things. I realized, not for the first time, but more viscerally than I had before, that I am incomplete, even a stranger, without Oliver to these moms. Our babies are our shorthand, our reason for speaking at all.
Later in the day I headed over to the park with Oliver and saw Chandra again. She smiled widely this time.
“Hi Oliver! How are you?" she asked, bending down to his eye level.
“Fine!” I answered for him. And that was that. And it’s okay, it really is … I do it, too, I’m sure … but it’s still weird.
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