Beans at the Mall

In the event you find that your social life is lacking, just have twins. Because even though babies don't learn to talk for quite a while, you'll find that everybody else does (talk- to you and about you). Suddenly people you don't know stop you on the street and ask after the twins by name because they know your next-door neighbors and now, you're friends with them too. Hubby and I can never have enough friends so we like that. But I guess if one has a more misanthropic bent on life, never mind having twins. Or children for that matter.

Anyway, the deal is, EVERYBODY has something to say when they see the twins. And sometimes when I'm out with the Beans people say things to which I have absolutely no idea how to respond. Because I really do want to be polite. But seriously, what should I say when a woman asks, "Did you have them yourself?" What the hell does that mean? What are you asking me? All I could think to say to that was, "Um, no. I had them at the hospital," which felt like a really stupid thing to say and looks even stupider in print. When I got home I realized I'd left my wedding ring at home and perhaps that's why she had such a quizzical look on her face and the entire conversation became funny as hell.

Other times I say too much and instantly wish I could recant my statement. Like last month when I told a guy off for calling me "Wide Load" while I was pushing the Beans in their double stroller. Yes, obviously it came out wrong and you didn't mean it like that but no, I'm not going to be the bigger person about it (pun intended, thank you) because as cool as I generally am about that stuff you just picked to wrong day to slip up. And you should know by now, since you're over the age of ten, sir, NEVER to call ANY WOMAN "wide load" or you will suffer terribly.

Anyway, the other day I was on the receiving end of the TMI ejaculation and lemme tell ya, it wasn't pretty but it sure was good for a laugh. I was at the mall (read: Craps Emporium) doing some Mother's Day shopping (got it all done on Tuesday-- what an organized machine I am) when I turned the corner in a shoe aisle (hey, I'm a mother too) and almost ran over an employee sitting on the floor.

"Oh! That brings back memories," she said. Memories of what? Did you get run over by a double stroller last week?

"Mine are... " she looks up at the ceiling and finds a number. "Twenty-nine yesterday!"

Oh, cool. Fellow twin mom. "Really? That's great! And you made it through-- way to go!"

Yes, they're both done with college and ensconced in careers and she's very proud. Since I have her attention for a second I ask whether the store has the style of shoe I'm looking for. Sure they do! She takes me over to the display and leaves me with some kind-hearted words of encouragement, for which I thank her, and steps into the storeroom in back.

I looked over the shoes for a couple of minutes and suddenly out of nowhere a voice over my shoulder, VERY close to my ear-- uncomfortably close, as in completely in my personal space, says, "So, did you try breastfeeding?"

I yelp in surprise and drop the shoe in my hand, bobbling it a few times to keep it from landing on the Beans' heads, a task at which I am barely successful, and I turn around and it's the twin mom from the floor with a big smile on her face.

"Sorry! Didn't mean to scare you!" Oh, you didn't scare me, I think to myself. I always have disembodied, floor-dwelling shoe women's voices whispering in my ear about breasts.

This makes me laugh. "No problem," I reply and wonder how quickly I can get out of there without being completely impolite because I'm not going to be able to keep the laugh monster at bay. What would be worse, I wonder-- turning around and walking away right this instant or staying and explaining why I'm rolling around on the floor in need of a new pair of pants because, by the way, I've wet them from laughing so hard.

"Six months," she says proudly.

"Oh wow, breastfeeding?" I ask, just to clarify.

"Yep. And when I quit they looked like oranges at the bottom of a coupla tennis socks!" and she swings her cupped hands down back and forth at about her waistline. Then she laughs rather loudly and then stops as suddenly as she began and just stares at me.

"Well, whatever it takes to make healthy babies," is all I can think to say, and I'm struggling so hard not to laugh at the whole situation because by this point, I don't want to offend anyone uninhibited (read: unstable) enough to strike up a conversation about her breasts with a total stranger in the shoe department at 1:30 in the afternoon while(I assume) completely sober.

"They get better, believe it or not. Just give them a year or two."

"You mean..." I gesture up around my chest region. Again, just to clarify.

She gives me a conspiritorial nod. She knows. It happened to her. To her own breasts.

"Well good, I was just about to give up hope," and I grab the closest pair of shoes I can find, bid her good day and head to the nearest checkstand.

I place my stuff on the counter and the girl behind the register (who is about nineteen) says, "Oh, I hope I have twins! I want them SO BAD!"

And now I know just what to say, because this is the response I've come to use for that statement which is, "Well, if you're lucky enough to have them I hope you have as much fun with yours as I have with mine."

And I mean it. On so many different levels.