Young ‘uns.

This morning while I was at the grocery store, the very sweet elderly woman at the cash register commented on how darling my little sister is.

I don’t have a little sister.

I have a daughter. (although I’m not going to argue with you over her being darling.)

 

I know, I get it.  Brian and I are young.  And I look like I’m quite a bit younger than I actually am.  But just give me the benefit of the doubt.  Please? 

When we go out to dinner, the wine glasses are automatically removed from the tables, “Coke? Lemonade?" we’re asked?  When we have children placed with us who are over the age of 2 it really throws people for a loop.  We went and got the boys registered for school last week and the art teacher came in to introduce herself.  (A very nice woman I might add.)  She asked the boys what grades they were in and who their teachers would be.  I’m filling out paperwork when I hear her ask someone if they’ll be registering at the middle school.  She asks again, and out of the corner of her eye I notice….no, there’s NO way, seriously?  She’s looking at ME.  I politely let her know that I am the boys foster mother, and while I’m not really old enough to have birthed them, I am NOT a middle schooler.

 

You should have seen it when X-man was first placed with us.  I was 9 (going on fifteen) months pregnant, carrying around a little boy on my hip who looked to be about 7 months old, and I look like I’m 15.  Add the fact that I was using WIC vouchers to buy his pediasure (before he was on any solids) and I got all kinds of nasty looks from the old women in the check out line.  Whispers.  Glares.  I could almost hear them thinking, “Teen mom, got herself pregnant again as soon as she popped out the first one, and I’M paying for her baby’s food.  Hmph.”  (Very rude old ladies.)

 

The one that took the cake was when Brian and I were leaving for our honeymoon.  Our HONEYMOON.  As we were boarding the plane Brian had his ticket scanned and boarded, but as I started to hand over my ticket, the sweet stewardess bends over to look me in the eye and in a very sugary tone asks, “Now honey, do you want someone to help you board the plane?”  no.  “Oh, well I was just checking, because normally we have someone accompany children 11 and under.”   !!!!!!!!!  11?  Ok, I can maybe understand 18.  11.  ugh.

 

They say I’ll appreciate this someday.  They say that I should soak it up now.  But really.

Maybe I’ll start wearing a shirt around that says, ‘If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you my stretch marks.’  That would get ‘em.