Sunday was a big day for my wife and me; after three months of jealously protecting our son, we finally took him into the world of strangers. Born six and one-half weeks premature, and in the heart of cold and flu season, we were continuously reminded by doctors not to take him around strangers for fear that his tiny immune system wouldn’t be able to handle the onslaught of germs with which he was sure to be inundated. We had also been warned that people love to touch babies with their germ ridden hands, even if they have never in their lives met the parents–not even in passing in the canned vegetable aisle.
I was on constant guard for these sick, baby touchers as we roamed Babies “R” Us. Every time I stopped the shopping cart and prepared to take a step to the side to look at an item, I’d flash a menacing look for 360 degrees. I wanted it to be clear that approaching this baby for a quick little cheek tug and an old-fashioned “goochie goo” wasn’t something any patron at the store wanted to dare. The tactic worked. We were in and out of the store without a single person approaching my boy.
Flush with our success from the store visit and drunk with the power of our new freedom, we went for a walk around the neighborhood after returning from the store. Soon after we started, we ran into some neighbors that we barely know–which is the appropriate level of friendship for all neighbors. After a few minutes of conversation to welcome my son to the neighborhood and the obligatory “how cute is he?!?” comments, a guy (we’ll call him Kevin, mostly because I don’t know his name) started to touch my son. Kevin has a child of his own and was clearly reluctant to make the move, thinking better of it twice and pulling his hand back down to his side. Finally, however, the temptation proved too great; Kevin extended his right hand and patted my son square on the belly, once.
If my son gets sick any time soon, I hope Kevin knows that, unlike his name, I do know where he lives.
