House hunting is a very strange thing. You get to peek into the lives of strangers, and you never quite know what you’re going to find. You’d be surprised just how often I open a closet door to find naked Barbie dolls, headless mannequins, and dirty underwear tossed in there. The opportunities for embarrassment abound. However, if you love awkward situations, then I highly recommend it.
Last Friday we went house hunting. Again. We pull up to a nicely maintained colonial only to find the owner leaving. She stops to introduce herself, and I ask how long she’s lived in the neighborhood. We chat for about one minute before my oldest son comes bounding over, and loudly interrupts. “Hi, I’m Michael! I’m eight years old!”
She smiles. Right away, it’s obvious she loves kids. “Hi Michael. I’m Susan.”
“How old are you?”
“Michael, you’re interrupting, and we don’t ask people how old they are.”
“It’s okay. I’m a teacher, and I’m used to kids asking lots of questions. I’m 53.”
“Wow, you’re really old!” We’ve had this discussion numerous times, including the previous weekend, when he asked his grandfather if he was a million… I stare at the ground in shame as my son continues to talk. “Are you going to have a baby?”
She is clearly NOT pregnant.
On the way home, we have a long talk about all the questions we’re not allowed to ask EVER, and my son gets really frustrated. He smacks himself in the head several times. “But how am I supposed to know whether or not a baby is coming if I’m not allowed to ask?”
And that right there, is the million dollar question. Unless the baby is falling out, how does one ever know?