When enjoying a lovely autumn day, you never think you’ll be attacked by a Momzilla.
But then again, no one in that sleepy New England town thought they’d have Jaws coming either.
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Yesterday we were invited by some friends to take a little day trip through Virginia wine country.
I must confess that in my Californian self-centeredness I really didn’t think that grapevines could grow successfully in any other part of the country. I even remember making fun of some Hudson river wineries with the Monsieur just because… I dunno honestly. Something about a conversation resembling an old Pace Picante Sauce commercial where it goes along the lines of,
“Hm. Interesting wine. Where is it from?”
“Oh, you know. New York State.”
“NEW YORK STATE????”
Lynching ensues, as it ought.
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But regionalistic hilarity aside, the three wineries we visited were quite lovely and had some nice wines, actually. I think my favorite was Linden Vineyards, mostly because they had what I thought were some creative wines, and which made me a little homesick for possibly the awesomest winery in the land. The downside was the fratboy atmosphere, but I guess it was Saturday.
In between making our rounds, we stopped at a cute restaurant where we were graciously and politely served and where everyone fawned over the baby, as is proper.
As we were settling into our table –perusing menus, draping napkins, arranging the seat cover over the high chair (<—which always gets us loads of compliments, btw) and getting baby's food out we suddenly heard a shout ring out, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Startled, the whole table stopped and looked around.
“DO NOT PLACE THE BABY SO CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE TABLE! NO! NO! NO!”
Honestly, I’d never been told “no” like that, so plaintively and so many times in a row. Now I kind of know how Herr Meow feels.
The Monsieur and I looked at each other and then looked a little more carefully.
Sure enough, if Herr Meow were to suddenly lose neck control (something he’s mastered thankfully since his third month of life) and lurch forward very, very, VERY fast he would risk getting his little noggin or an eye impaled onto the evil yet buttery smooth maplewood table.
“I used to be [insert type of alert emergency personnel that wouldn’t be so neglectful as to place HER child in that horrid kind of immediate danger] and I have SEEN horrible things like you would not imagine. PLEASE! Move the baby away from the table! NOW!”
Honestly, as I write this I still don’t quite know what to think. On the one hand, I am now far more aware of the dangers of edges –despite getting a crash course on the dangers of sharp baluster edges when Herr Meow was first learning to pull up. Sometimes it is a parent’s onus to battle complacency, because it’s easy to think that just because something hasn’t happened to your child yet, that it never will. And so when it does, you are hit with both the fear and the devastation of seeing whatever that was happen, and knowing that you could have somehow prevented it because you maybe saw it coming.
But on the other hand –apart from having different fingers– I feel a little outraged. If I were a hair more neurotic, I would really be freaking out over all the possible times that my child could have cracked his skull by my apparent negligence more than I already do. I really resent having a stranger lecture me on dangers that I honestly feel are not truly imminent dangers for my child (because somehow she didn’t seem to mind that he was not buckled into his high chair at that point in time, for instance; and she didn’t bother to ask me if I was going to feed him uncut hotdogs or let him play with my razor or shove unpopped corn into his nose).
I think she may have scared even herself with her own zealousness, because she was very quiet the rest of our time there. And I think it was best that way.
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Anyway. Happy October, y’allz! And remember: I chronicle Momzilla encounters so you don’t have to.
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