I took Violet into the bathroom at the grocery store today. It was a nice bathroom; one with a changing station that included wipes and diapers. After 35 years of having a single, solo mission in public restrooms, it’s odd going into one with something - and someone - else on the agenda. Violet let loose with a loud, choking cry after I set her on the cold, hard plastic of the changing shelf, and I couldn’t help but get sweaty, thinking that everyone in the bathroom either wanted me to leave, felt I was abusing my daughter, or thought I didn’t know what I was doing. I finished changing her, and then, as I was putting Violet – still screaming – back into her carrier, an older man paused on his way to the sinks and asked if she was a newborn, and I stared at him – probably for a moment too long – wanting to say, “We’re in the bathroom, and I don’t know you. There’s no talking.” Instead, I said, “Uhhh…three months. Three months old.” He looked at me askance, and I shoved everything back into the diaper bag and picked up Violet in her carrier before he could ask if she was really my child.
92 days old