Mike and I took the girls on a little walk around the neighborhood yesterday. And dammit, it was perfect.
Perfect temperature. Perfect amount of sunshine. Perfect lack of wind.
All of my ideal walking conditions were met and then-some. Bravo, mother nature! You’re alright!
We walked past big, beautiful old homes (that I plan to occupy in my next life).
We came across birds and squirrels and scary dogs.
We smelled flowers and soil and Nyquil (well, Mike smelled that one).
We took in all of the sights and scents that springtime has to offer.
It was a beautiful day and all was right with the world.
Then we saw her.
Standing right in our path, arms outstretched, grinning with delight as we hesitantly drew closer…
There was no escaping her. She had us in her sights. We were trapped.
Yes, the time had come.
The time that every parent of twins surely dreads…
Our first encounter with a baby-touching crazy lady.
There she stood, in all her white-haired, stroller-lovin’ glory.
She quickly descended on our babies like a ravenous vulture.
Mike and I nervously watched as she crouched down on the sidewalk in front of the girls and wasted no time touching their cheeks. She went on to tell them how she has a granddaughter their age and how they would love her house(!?). Both girls kept looking up at me as if to say “Who the eff is this lady and why won’t she shut up?”.
Soon I heard a whimper. And poor Everly was in tears.
I thought this would be a good cue for the lady to step the hell off, but no…
She concludes that Ev is crying because she wasn’t talking directly to her enough. (Um, not quite lady. She’s crying because you’re talking to her.)
So she continues to yammer on at her and Ev cries harder.
I finally say “What’s wrong Ev, do you wanna keep walking?”, and we hightailed it the eff outta there.
She continued talking as we walked on, telling us that she has 8 kids.
And to enjoy them now because they grow up fast. (Which must be true, cos we get this a LOT.)
I suppose when all was said and done, she was a pretty low threat on the Crazy Old Lady scale.
I just didn’t like the touching. It made me super uncomfortable. Who knows where her hands have been? I don’t know what strange old ladies do with their hands. Do they forget to wash after they wipe? Old people are forgetful, no?
I suppose most people probably would have told her to keep her creepy old lady hands to herself, but alas, “most people” we are not. Mike & I are both super introverted and painfully awkward around strangers. Needless to say, we are not well equipped to handle this kind of crap.
And so the adventure begins…