I've become a Matron

I just remembered a rather amusing little snippet of a story. You'll remember that I don’t have a car anymore, right? It’s been a tough transition, but two years later, I’ve adjusted pretty well. I thought I was going to start chopping down my mother’s precious trees for enjoyment this summer in case I caught cabin fever, though, but a very generous couple in our church (who happens to travel a lot in the summer) allowed me the use of their minivan for the last two weeks. Now let me just say that I have been dead set against becoming a soccer-mom-in-a-minivan, but after the luxury of having a vehicle and the conveniences that a minivan offers, I am now PRO-minivan and could very easily become a spokesperson for any company willing to pay the right price.

That said, Gideon, Scarlett, and I went to the grocery store last week. At this point, the easiest thing to do is pull up next to a grocery cart return aisle, pull one out, stick the kids in, and march myself inside. This particular Publix only has one such aisles (it drives me crazy), and of course, no shopping carts were present. So, I strapped Scarlett in the Baby Bjorn, took Gideon by the hand, and we proceeded, very slowly toward the store.

I see a car turn down our aisle, and I quickly move Gideon around to the other side to walk next to the parked cars. Inside the moving vehicle is the tiniest old lady I’ve ever seen. She’s driving the biggest Cadillac I’ve ever seen, too. And for some strange reason, she’s peeping over her door at us, craning her neck like a disgruntled chicken in a coop…so I get a little nervous. I start wondering if she thinks I’m a bad mom because Gideon was walking on the wrong side of me or if she's got a 1860's pistol she's about to pull out. My imagination takes off, but really, who knows?

We continue our very slow trek into the store, I grab a cart, plop Gideon carelessly in, and we are just inside the doors when I hear a diminutive squeaky little voice saying over and over, “excuse me, excuse me.” Yes, it was the old lady trying to get someone’s attention. I turned around and saw her, all dolled up, with her lipstick on, her perfectly coifed curls, and her patent leather white purse clutched tightly to her. Apparently it was me she was trying to attract.

“I hurried out of my car as fast as I could so I could try and get a peep at your beautiful babies.”

“Why, thank you.” I’m all puffed up with motherly pride.

We proceed to discuss how sweet my little angelic cherubs were, their close ages, and then she asked me how many children we planned to have.

“Oh, somewhere around the neighborhood of 4 or more.”

“I knew it! I took one look at you walking and said to myself - - that gal is going to have lots of children.”

With that one statement, all puff was officially popped. I mumbled something unintelligible and disingenuous and moved quickly about my business.

I took stock of myself and wondered how she’d arrived at that conclusion. Yes, I got out of a minivan, I have a baby strapped to my chest and a toddler in my cart. Yes, my t-shirt and running shorts probably don’t match and I haven’t run in months, I’m not wearing make-up, my hair is in a pathetically attempted ponytail partially hidden by Jeff’s sun-visor (not matching) and maybe my thighs still rub together when I walk, but seriously, does that make me matronly looking? And does that automatically assume big family?

I guess it does. But, I’m still in shock. How ever did it happen?