It’s a Bird… It’s a Plane…

I come from an airplane-loving family. So it was no shock when Tadpole’s birth announcements had airplanes on them, and his room was adorned in airplane décor. And it probably doesn’t come as a surprise, either, that for many months now in the park I have pointed out airplanes high in the sky, hoping that my munchkin would brilliantly look up and proclaim “AIRPLANE!” with the same amount of enthusiasm that I have bestowed on the flying crafts. Instead, he has typically ignored me and focused straight ahead on the squirrel running across the grass or the group of guys playing football in the field.

One day he noticed though!

And now my Superbaby is unstoppable. He is amazing. For the past several weeks, he has missed barely a single airplane or chopper in the sky.

We’ll be strolling down the High Street, commotion everywhere – shoppers at the fruit and veg stand, cars whizzing by, people laughing loudly, mobile phones ringing, cabbies honking at pedestrians – and Tadpole will suddenly turn 180 degrees in his buggy and point into the sky. “What is it?” I asked at first, but now I know: my Superbaby has heard or spotted a plane, high in the sky, barely audible to my over stimulated ears and certainly not the most readily visible object around, even with the eyes I’ve grown in the back of my head since having a mobile child in my house.

Or we’ll be at home, Tadpole pleasantly occupied by eating raisins at the dining room table or playing with his new xylophone, when suddenly he’ll confidently point wide-eyed out the window. Give me about three seconds, and no doubt I will hear an airplane flying overhead. And he’s in a phase (isn’t it true that babies love repetition?) that he’ll acknowledge EVERY single one – which, when you realize we live under a flight departure path of Heathrow airport, means he’s sometimes pointing out an airplane every five minutes.

At first my pride at his obvious intelligence soared, and I would joyfully cry out “YES! It’s an AIRPLANE!” with each pointed finger. Then the other day, when it started getting painfully tiresome to feign this much enthusiasm 12 times per hour, I thought to start ignoring this obsession. But it’s so adorable to see his face light up, and beyond thrilling to watch him learn and discover, that I smiled cheerily and yet again delighted him with passionate praise:

“YES! It’s an airplane!”

Pardon Me

I just adore little English children. They are so delightful. I’m not at all suggesting that they don’t have – or cause – their fair share of trouble. But most I encounter seem quite polite and proper, and you can’t help but smile at their charming random comments.

Of course, many kids make charming random comments, right? But keep in mind that these quips are coming from not just ordinary kids, but ones with eloquent English accents and often dressed in prim school uniforms. Think Mary Poppins, but circa 2006.

A common phrase I hear when I’m walking the dog that always makes me chuckle: “May I please stroke him?”

Then there was the miniature gentleman on the bus last week that said, “Excuse me, but would you care to have my seat?”

Today a young girl of about two years old ran up to me, smiled shyly, pointed to my oversized belly, and said, “Is there a wee little baby inside of you?”

(Again, remember the melodious English accent.)

And the comments – I love this – are nearly always preceded by a delicate “Pardon me.” Ooooh! How courteous! Kinda makes me want to bundle up the kiddos and bring them home with me, or at least bottle up their politeness and sprinkle it over everyone around me.

No complaints if my children pick up this English characteristic!

It Started with Grace

I’ve gone this entire pregnancy with relatively little comment about my growing bump, and even fewer people touching it (except, notably, my Spanish housekeeper, Maria, who incessantly rubs it as if it were Buddha himself). This is quite different than when I was pregnant with Tadpole, when I had countless women reach out in a shy half-touch towards my protruding belly, and everyone from waiters in France to the nurse at the vet insisting that yes, indeed, I was certainly carrying a boy. My only guess is that people see me with my little Tadpole and realize that I’ve just recently gone through the great experience that is pregnancy, thus figuring it’s old hat to me and refraining from random chitter-chatter.

Except for last Thursday.

It started on a visit to Fresh & Wild (UK’s division of Whole Foods) to rack up a huge bill on allergy-friendly ingredients for Tadpole. I carried my overloaded basket to the checkout, balancing in my free hand the heavier glass jars I was purchasing, and wondering how in the world I was going to make it all the way home, seeing as how I do not own a vehicle, a taxi would be hard to come by in this area, and the bus would be crowded with rush-hour commuters. The woman behind the counter broke my train of thought when she sweetly called out for someone to assist me in getting my basket up onto the counter. She smiled and immediately exclaimed, “You’re having a boy!” to which I curiously cocked my head, laughed, and replied, “Yes!” She proceeded to congratulate me, scan my groceries, and then lovingly insist that I be extremely careful, especially with all I had to carry. Then a light bulb visibly went off in her head and she ducked under the counter, reemerging with a reusable straw bag. “They gave all the employees one of these, and I’m giving mine to you. It’ll make your trip home much easier.” So with insistence I couldn’t argue against, and my new straw bag, I thanked her profusely and gathered my goods.

I noticed her nametag greeted “Hello, My Name Is… Grace.”

Then I got on the crowded bus. You’d think I was wearing a frilly white wedding gown, with all the unusual fuss that was made over me. The passengers parted like the Red Sea, and while someone jumped up to offer their seat, another actually bent down, grabbed my bags, and placed them up in the luggage area. Genuine interest in my sizeable bump followed, leading off with the jovial toothless man beside me saying, “I think it’s a boy!” I chuckled and replied affirmatively, while the others around me started gently asking things like was it my first, was I ready, and how much longer did I have to go. Their sincerity put a smile on my face that eased the burden of the heavy load I was carrying. And, truthfully, though I’m absolutely thrilled about Gumdrop’s pending arrival, taking care of my 12-month old doesn’t offer me much time to contemplate this pregnancy like I did with Tadpole’s.

The excitement of this haphazard group of strangers slowed me down a bit and made me feel energized and beautiful and glowing.

Off the bus for a quick stop at home to drop my foodstuffs and head to the Tube station to meet a friend and visit another together. My step lighter (emotionally and physically), I was busy daydreaming about what Gumdrop will look like when I walked by a van with a well-dressed driver waiting outside. I hardly threw a glance his way as I passed, but nearly tripped over my now-invisible feet when he called out after me, “You’re carrying a boy!” My eyes danced with laughter as I turned and nearly giggled my response of “YES! You’re right!”

How do these people know? And what is it about today? Am I wearing a sign?

Forty-five minutes later, my friend and I saunter into the Waitrose just outside our destination to buy a few snacks for the friend we’re visiting and her new 2-week old baby. I can’t say I was too focused on the clerk ringing up our munchies, but rather lost in chit-chat with my friend, when he surprised me by saying, “I’m not going to share my guess, but may I ask if you are having a boy or girl?” My giddy response probably raised his eyebrows, but he’d had no idea what my day had been like so far.

Turns out he had two little dudes of his own at home, and both times “everybody kept telling us we were having boys.”

On to my friend’s place, where we nibbled, held the newborn, and caught up on each other’s events of the last few weeks. (Of course, I shared that I had recently run into the rather handsome Jude Law on my High Street.) With the day’s fun predictions of boys on my mind, and the joy of my friend’s new little guy in my arms, I could feel the light of motherhood radiating on my face. And you’d think that dreamy picture would be a nice way to end this blurb, but then there was the cab ride home…

The journey took about 20 minutes, and after 10 or so had passed without conversation, I was completely zoned out, watching the bustling city pass by in a blur. About three minutes before arriving at home, the cabbie woke me out of my reverie by clicking his microphone on and saying, “May I ask if you are having a boy?” (At this point you are probably certain I am making this up, but I assure you I am not.) I remarked that he was the fifth person today to comment on the sex of my coming baby, which indeed was a boya. He commented in a gentlemanly way that I looked lovely, we made small talk about my growing family and his two grown girls, and then parted ways at my front step.

Needless to say, I tipped him well.

And continued to glow with gratitude for this BOY the rest of the day.