Today, Blaine and I were out at a berry picking “farm.” The kind with cute baby animals, and decorative bales of hay, and five dollar zucchinis. Can it really be called a farm if it sells Williams Sonoma cookbooks and designer tea towels?
Anyways, we were in the sweet shoppe (it doesn’t have a name, but I know that’s what they’d call it) looking at olde tyme candy when a mom walked in with a little boy and a new baby. I stole glances at the baby’s tiny, fuzzy head while the mom chatted with the woman at the fudge counter. Blaine and I walked up to the fudge counter for samples, and peered at the baby as the mother walked out. “I’m the great aunt,” said the fudge lady with a proud smile. We offered congratulations along with the obligatory (and true) “he’s so cute” comments. “Three weeks old?” I asked. She started to shake her head, “No, two…wait…three! Yes, he’s three weeks old.”
Blaine, having seen me perform this trick before, rolled her eyes a bit before obliging that, yes, I am pretty good at that. Of course, once outside the sweet shoppe, Blaine asked me to repeat my performance with the baby goats. “Oooh, there’s a baby. How old is that one? Fifty three days?”
I wonder if I can put that on a resume: “Practiced in discerning the approximate age of infants based on developed metrics.”