"It's so hard to be popular."

Everyone knows that little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, while boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. (I don't know what a "snip" is supposed to be, but I suppose mixed in with the other two, it can't be all that great....sorry little boys.) Either way, girl or boy, I'd like to propose an addition to the poem, except that I can't think of anything to rhyme with "Girls are made of highly-magnetic-material-which-is-irresistible-to-the-will-power-of-even-the-most-self-controlled-adult." Micah and I encountered said "magnetism" yesterday while at Starbucks. She was in a great mood, laughing and smiling at everyone as they entered and left, so she'd made quite a few new friends. I never have a problem with that. In fact, I rarely have a problem with random strangers coming over to talk to me her while we're together. Aaron and I joke that our baby is the only thing that makes us "popular." However, when she and I had finished our breakfast and coffee, we rolled our high chair over to its little storage area and were confronted with what became a particularly awkward encounter.

*Break: Here I must pause. I think it is worth noting that the Starbucks near our house deserves MAJOR props for having a high chair in the first place. I have yet to find another that does. AND it's on wheels AND doesn't weigh 85,000 tons. Not to mention the fact that Micah learned very quickly that if she kicked hard enough the chair would start to roll away from the table. That was so entertaining she had difficulty finishing her breakfast.....which means REALLY ENTERTAINING because there is not much that can come between that child and her food.*

But I digress. (Isn't that the point of a blog half the time anyway? Or is it just mine?) As I bent down to lift Micah from the high chair, I became "eerily" aware of a man's presence. I say "eerily" because he was playing "peek-a-boo" with Micah from about 1 cm behind my shoulder as I was bent over. Awkward? Yes. Does it get a little worse? Yes. I thought I did a fairly good job of avoiding a panicked freak out when I realized how close he was to me, so I turned around with her on my hip and we attempted to make a clean break. He wasn't quite finished, though, because he hadn't gotten a chance to poke her chubby belly yet. If you can imagine yourself holding a baby on your hip, you can probably also imagine that her chubby belly, while admittedly very cute, is generally pretty close to my body, which I like to keep to myself, thank you very much. After repeated "poke poke pokes," Micah and I made a run for it, me feeling kind of huffy and puffy and blow-your-piping-hot-latte-out-of-your-hand-y, when he said "Thank you so much for that. It made me day."

Well, shoot. What was it again that I was all worked up about? Before you complimented my baby and credited her with casting a ray of sunshine over your apparently formerly drab day?

In the words of a little girl to whom I once taught piano lessons: "(Sigh) It's so hard to be pop-uh-lur."