Remember how the other day I said that no one has ever asked me about physical attributes of M’s “dad”? Two days ago some one did.
M and I went on a tour of a pre-school (YIKES!). The room was tiny, like a walk-in freezer with windows and small people milling about and toys all over the floor. After about fifteen minutes of awkward play, M was ready to go. On the way out the door, one of the teachers asked how old he is.
“He turned two in December,” I told her.
“He’s really tall. Is his dad tall?”
“He doesn’t have a dad,” I replied.
Before I could explain,
“Oh. How tall are you?” She didn’t stop to breathe.
“I didn’t give birth to him. His other mother gave birth to him and she is also 5’6.”
“Oh. He’s tall,” she said like a closing paragraph summing up the thesis.
The topic of conversation did not feel awkward, but this woman sure was! I think she must be used to talking to adults in really short spurts throughout the day, never being able to have an entire conversation at one time. Her speech was rushed, quick like a bunny. Before I could even formulate a thought in response, she was wiping a nose with one hand and holding a book she was reading aloud in the other while I was breathing deep for her.