Today I missed an occasion to keep my mouth shut... or at least, think a little bit longer about what comes tumbling out of it.
Hugo and I were at the park playing on the slide. A woman was chasing a little boy around, he was giggling happily and she was too. It was lovely until I spoke...
"Is that your grand-child?" I asked... In that moment, as she registered what I had said, I knew it was too late to take it back.
"No... he's my son," she replied. I almost physically felt her deflating in front of me and I felt like such an idiot.
I apologised but the damage was done. Coincidentally, as I was mumbling uselessly, Hugo threatened to fall off the slide so I moved away and caught him. By the time I was done, the lady was back to playing with her son.
As I looked at her again, I realised that she didn't even look like a grand-mother. She did look older than me but not by a whole generation.
I don't know what happened. I think it was because her style and general appearance were so far removed from the Yummy Mummy style I have come to expect at the park I visit.
Half the mothers who come are dressed in stretchy running / yoga outfits, sipping lattes and pushing fancy prams. She wasn't doing any of those things.
And there have been a few times when most children were in fact being minded by their grand-parents, while their latte sipping yummy mummies were most likely at work.
Since my lady at the park didn't fit into the first category, my silly mind didn't think long enough not to chuck her into the latter category...
I didn't want to leave it like that so I reignited the conversation starting by asking how old her son was. We made small talk. I'm pretty sure she asked me how old my little girl was (Apparently red pants are for girls). Her mistake about my baby's gender rectified the balance at tiny bit but of course, it wasn't the same.
I think we left it on good terms but still, I hope my comment doesn't come back to sting her as she is falling asleep tonight.
If it is any consolation, my embarrassment will be stinging me.
Next time, I'll simply ask, "and how old is your little one?" No grand-mas, no boy or girl.
Keeping it simple.
Hugo and I were at the park playing on the slide. A woman was chasing a little boy around, he was giggling happily and she was too. It was lovely until I spoke...
"Is that your grand-child?" I asked... In that moment, as she registered what I had said, I knew it was too late to take it back.
"No... he's my son," she replied. I almost physically felt her deflating in front of me and I felt like such an idiot.
I apologised but the damage was done. Coincidentally, as I was mumbling uselessly, Hugo threatened to fall off the slide so I moved away and caught him. By the time I was done, the lady was back to playing with her son.
As I looked at her again, I realised that she didn't even look like a grand-mother. She did look older than me but not by a whole generation.
I don't know what happened. I think it was because her style and general appearance were so far removed from the Yummy Mummy style I have come to expect at the park I visit.
Half the mothers who come are dressed in stretchy running / yoga outfits, sipping lattes and pushing fancy prams. She wasn't doing any of those things.
And there have been a few times when most children were in fact being minded by their grand-parents, while their latte sipping yummy mummies were most likely at work.
Since my lady at the park didn't fit into the first category, my silly mind didn't think long enough not to chuck her into the latter category...
I didn't want to leave it like that so I reignited the conversation starting by asking how old her son was. We made small talk. I'm pretty sure she asked me how old my little girl was (Apparently red pants are for girls). Her mistake about my baby's gender rectified the balance at tiny bit but of course, it wasn't the same.
I think we left it on good terms but still, I hope my comment doesn't come back to sting her as she is falling asleep tonight.
If it is any consolation, my embarrassment will be stinging me.
Next time, I'll simply ask, "and how old is your little one?" No grand-mas, no boy or girl.
Keeping it simple.
These things do happen and I've certainly learned to hold my tongue each time I think a young Texan woman is pregnant since most often their appearance is due to an excessive intake of burgers, fries, hush puppies, cupcakes and donuts washed down by Diet Coke (of course) rather than to a new member of the family on the way.
ReplyDeleteThe red pants anecdote gave me a chuckle and I guess this alerts us to the notion of not judging a book by its cover ... which brings me to the subject of "book art" which I discovered at a book club meeting last night. It just requires overcoming the idea that taking scissors to a book is a crime:
"Art Made from Books: Altered, Sculpted, Carved, Transformed"
http://www.google.com/search?q=book+art&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=wb9jU5TFEIKryATspYGQAw&ved=0CCUQsAQ&biw=1280&bih=609