a hat is a wonderment of flirtation

Last weekend, I saw some of my (former? future?) colleagues. I loved how they asked about the baby, just to give themselves a forum to go on about their own experiences. I should be used to that inevitable first question by now, but there it was. I was relieved to be interrupted before having to answer it. It can be done in a word, but if the word happens to be no, you’re obliged to follow up. I know I’m sensitive, but it’s not all in my head: there is a whole world of guilt out there, a thousand reminders, that your baby may be fine, but still, you failed.

I could write more, but I’m still not at the point of being able to write about it. I am at the point of being able to look beyond it, a little. The buka is a joy. I’ve always known that, but I was too resentful or exhausted or overwhelmed by the whole experience to appreciate it much. I didn’t disagree with the shrink’s diagnosis of depression; I just didn’t know what to do with it. I still wonder how things might be different if I had taken the meds, or if I decide to pursue therapy with some other, nicer counselor. It was a wake-up call for me. Maybe that was enough.

One of those colleagues drove me home, and I invited her in to meet the buka. Greeks don’t like to come in someone’s house for the first time empty-handed, so she hemmed and hawed a little, but finally, I convinced her. When I first met this person, I admired her instantly for what I call her “fuck you” attitude. She’s an imposing woman: she dominates any room, any conversation, any man, woman, child, or group in proximity. She’s large, loud, and completely unabashed. These characteristics, which are exactly the opposite of my own, can get tiring in a hurry. It’s been a long time since I considered her a friend.

But for all her drama and self-absorption, I have to say her reaction to the buka struck me as really genuine. She took one look at her, and cried.

She has a daughter of her own. She says she just really loves babies. I’ve seen people react to the buka in so many different ways, from the women in the supermarket who insist that she’s cold and tell me not to spend too long in the refrigerated aisles, to open-mouthed little kids who seem to find it fascinating that there are people even smaller and cuter than them. Once a stranger crossed the city center with me, practically hip to hip, smiling at the buka the whole way. Men are especially funny. Babies bring out all kinds of emotions in people. I think that’s what’s been happening to me. She doesn’t have to flirt to melt my heart or get a good meal, but she’s so good at it.


(Title of post stolen from here.)