Simone, Nadia and I were minding our own business at the local discount store when a well-meaning woman asked, “Are they yours?”
“Yep!” I said.
I was so proud of myself for about five seconds.
“But are they yours or are you the grandma?”
“These are my babies.”
With that, we had passed out of sight and earshot of each other. Simone and Nadia didn’t say a word, but I was still having the conversation in my mind.
Grandma? Who is she calling grandma? Do I look like a grandma?
A few days later, I gave it some more thought. I suppose she probably sees more and more people of different races having children together. My guess is she sees this happening more among young people. I know a few women who are younger than I am and they are grandparents. In this young woman’s mind, people who look like me, who grew up during a different time, are more likely to be grandparents of mixed children.
That’s all well and good, but I’ve made an executive decision about questions from strangers. They can ask one question. (They shouldn’t ask at all, but I certainly understand how curiosity works.) My life, though, isn’t some kind of news conference. I will not answer follow-up questions. Folks who can’t abide by this arbitrary rule will, as my mother used to say, risk having their feelings hurt. Fair warning.