Yes, ma’am, they’re mine

Monday.  Grocery shopping day.  The boys were dancing about the store, just in front of me.  Every once in a while, I would say “Boys, watch out,” “Boys, look where you’re going,” and “Say excuse me.”  It was barely contained chaos.  But it was contained, and they weren’t making that much of an issue.

I stopped to price check string cheese.  I had an idea for a new lunch recipe.  I’m desperate to have some new ones.

Older lady: My.  Are they all yours?

I look up.  I counted heads.  Three didn’t seem to be a lot.

Me: (smiling) Yes, they are.

Older lady: Are you going to have any more?

Maybe I’m the only one who glances at left hands.  I haven’t worn my wedding band or my engagement ring in so long that I no longer have a tan line or a callus.

Me: I have my hands full with just these three for now.

Older lady: All boys too?  They are very cute.

Tornado S looked up at her with his big, beautiful dark brown eyes.

Me: Thank you.

She looked at each of them, inspecting.  As though they know she was judging them, they in turn held her gaze.

Older lady: And they all look like you!  (She glanced at each boy again.)  They all have your nose. (She patted my arm.)  God bless you.

She walked off.

I looked at my tornadoes, thinking of my nose.  The one I inherited from my father.  The female version of his.  I pictured my father.

Me: I’m so sorry for that, boys.  Hopefully your eyes and smile will off set that honker you all will grow.


3 Responses to “Yes, ma’am, they’re mine”

  1. 5kidswdisabilities Says:

    It never surprises me the kinds of things people say. I have 5 kiddos, 4 adopted minority children. When people would see us out and about, they would also ask “Are they all yours?” I would answer of COURSE they are. Children who are adopted are as much mine as if I gave birth to them. No one ever commented that their noses looked like mine, though. That’s good for them!

  2. TheKitchenWitch Says:

    I bet it’s an adorable nose.

  3. Elastamom Says:

    People are so weird.

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