Hello, Neighbor

I'm trying to meet people now that I have a kid. I think that's what moms are supposed to do.

It's not easy.

So yesterday Rosie down the street threw a party. And I was invited! Can you believe it?! OK, it's only because I pay her son $12 a week to mow my yard, so it was probably kind of a sympathy invite. But I take what I can get.

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I had to bring some food. An appetizer and a dessert. An appetizer and a dessert! Double the potential for utter disaster as I give a few dozen people food poisoning. Fantastic.

I couldn't just bring something from the grocery. Oh I could. However? That wouldn't make an impression. If I'm going to a party and bringing food, it has to be a least slightly better than mediocre. That's all I'm going for. So I brought a salad and brownies. A summery salad with apples, grapes, walnuts and grilled chicken says "I'm not trying too hard, and I'm a healthy, and oh, this is something I just threw together. You think it's delicious? You flatter me." Right? I don't eat salad, but that's kind of the impression I get from people that do. And brownies. Because the mix is delicious.

So down the street we went [well, nothing is that easy, but this story is already getting a little long, right?].

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Then there were the questions. The questions I'm uncomfortable answering, because maybe I don't know the answers.

How old is the baby?

Easy one! Eight weeks. Yes, he's big. But he's not off-the-charts big. Stop saying he's so big! You'll make him feel fat! And I have enough weight issues for this whole little family, ok??

What do you do?

Another easy one. I stay home with the baby.

But before that?

Oh, before that. You know, a little of this, a little of that. There was college, then law school, then...

You're a lawyer?!

Yep.

Oh, I have a question for you...

The answer really depends. On what? On a lot of things... You know, the husband's a lawyer too, a better one than I am and "HONEY?! Please come over here!"

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You know what? He's probably not a "better lawyer" than I am, at least in the academic sense. I went to a prestigious law school. Really. And I did well. Really. I was good at law school and I am good at lawyering.

But, you guys, I hate it. I even hate telling people that I'm a lawyer. But I am, and there's a certain credibility afforded to me when people know that I am. So I do tell, but I always regret it.

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All in all, meeting the neighbors went well. Unless they're all still talking about us.... about the baby's diaper exploding, covering my husband in pee... about the monkey dish the brownies were on that I spent half an hour choosing in Target [options limited by my inability to purchase any item not on clearance]... about me awkwardly nursing the baby on Rosie's bed as her friend walked in on me... about me rambling on about how terrible it is to smoke around children as the woman behind me lit one up... oh, about any number of mishaps.

But you know what? They're not so normal either. And the husband and I are still talking about THEM.

Take that, neighbors.