Babies attract a lot of attention. They’re little, they’re cute, they’re (usually) smiley, and they toddle around in unpredictable ways. They’re fun to watch. Usually, the kind of attention C gets while out in public is pretty standard.
How old is she? (Or he, since she’s follically challenged)
Is she walking yet?
That type of comment is pretty typical. However, Pete and I took C with us to an appointment at Toronto General Hospital and as I was waiting to go into a washroom with little C, an Eastern European woman in her early ’70s stopped me and began firing questions at me:
Is it a boy or a girl?
How old is she?
Is she your first?
Nothing out of the ordinary here, but then she says: “She’s going to be a manhunter!” And I sort of stopped, stared at the woman, and replied “oh, well, I don’t know.” But the woman insisted “Oh yes, she is going to be a manhunter! A manhunter!”
Uh, okay. I have to get on with my day here.
I told Pete what the old woman had said and he seemed equally confused.
I asked, “does that lady think C’s going to track people down in the desert using only her cunning? Like the show where people are dropped off in the middle of nowhere and have to outrun that intense, cowboy-hatted guy?”
Pete replied: “You’re thinking of Mantracker. I don’t think that lady means C’s going to be a mantracker.”
Surely she wasn’t referring to the first Hannibal Lecter movie. C isn’t going to hunt down serial killers by collaborating with other serial killers. That’s just ludicrous.
“I think she meant that C is going to be boy crazy, ” I said to Pete.
Ugh, I think I prefer the first two scenarios.