We expect leaf peepers around this time of year. We have trees in Connecticut, but peepers rarely stop here because New England road trips must cross at least three state lines to be considered authentic.
Leaf peepers are mostly harmless though slightly aggressive drivers putting in a $25 Starbucks order as they pass through.
A few people complain, but mostly we just appreciate the business.
The real nuisance, I’ve come to learn while raising my eight-month-old daughter, are baby peepers: the men and women who see a baby in public and hijack the encounter for their own weird amusement.
Baby peepers combine the best of humanity (babies) with the worst (energy-sucking leaches).
Unlike seasonal leaf peepers, baby peepers are always lurking, eager to siphon off my daughter Senita’s happiness during even our most mundane activities.
A few recent examples include:
- An Amazon delivery driver who thought our front-yard picnic was so cute she asked to take our picture. No, creeper, you can’t take my baby’s picture in front of the residence where she sleeps.
- A lady offering cheese samples at the grocery store on an eighty-degree day who was very concerned that Senita didn’t have socks and suggested that I wrap her feet in a reusable shopping bag to keep them warm. Or, I’ll just leave this row of open refrigeration units you creepy cheese-monger.
- A lady cutting fabric at a craft store who declared with great joy that Senita smells like applesauce even though at that point she’d only had three bites of apple in her life (spread over four very unproductive feedings).
Baby peepers think they’re engaged in some great exchange that delights my child because they read her reactions through their own self-involved lens.
“Oh she likes me,” one might exclaim while thrusting her over-primped head into Senita’s personal space as I restrain myself from saying that it’s because they have the same haircut as Dolly, her beloved stuffed llama.
Or they claim that a wiggle of their arthritic fingers elicited a laugh while blissfully unaware that Senita spent fifteen minutes this morning laughing at a ceiling fan.
Senita is particularly vulnerable to baby peepers because, at eight-months-old, she’s big enough to put herself out into the world (like riding in the seat portion of a shopping cart), but not yet old enough to defend herself by answering questions like “who’s this little cutie?” with disarming questions of her own, such as “why are you so wrinkly?”
While I do lash out occasionally, I try to be a good sport because I know I’m a temporary custodian of society’s goodwill towards babies.
This isn’t the first time I’ve benefitted. I was an extremely cute kid. Attention burned hot throughout my childhood before lowering to a sizzle and finally extinguishing itself with a burst of acne and a puff of body hair.
Now it’s reborn through the cuteness of my infant daughter (who I do not name or show on this website) and the novelty of my weekday-appearances at her side. We’re an anomaly as a daddy-daughter act, but only with the over sixty-five crowd, who tend to be the only other ones around anyways.
At times it’s nice. I get star-studded treatment during the day and then blend back into normal society simply by staying awake past six pm. It must be how Danny Bonaduce feels in whatever Florida hotspot he’s in right now (he’s totally in Florida, right?).
But it has it’s dark spots too. At least once a week someone says, “Oh, you’re Mr. Mom,” referencing a Michael Keaton movie made when I was three years old, or assumes I’m just babysitting until Mom gets back.
“Oh no,” I always reply, “I’m actually the father so we call it parenting.”
I’m usually good at predicting who will turn to peep at my carriage as they pass. There are the common tells like being over sixty-five-years-old or wearing turquoise, and the surprising ones, like spilling out confessions of abject loneliness at the sight of a happy child.
“Appreciate this moment,” they chide, hinting that when it was their turn they did not. Or that they had, and now it’s gone, like autumn leaves blown off in a gust the moment when you finally turn to grab your camera.
If you enjoy my humor writing, please subscribe below.
If you want to syndicate this column, you may contact me here to discuss the details.
You may notice that I’ve disabled commenting on this post. I’d love to hear your thoughts by email at [email protected].
Check out The Uncommon Discourse Podcast, where acclaimed storyteller Chris Gaffney reads and discusses ten of his most popular humor columns.
Each episode is under ten minutes long and features Chris reading a favorite article along with a brief description of why the article means so much to him.
Find Season 01 on iTunes, Stitcher, TuneIn.com, or stream/download episodes here: https://uncommondiscourse.com/podcast.