Megan Pettit shares stories from a new mom
Our baby was 3 weeks old when George and I went for dinner to celebrate our one year wedding anniversary. Bundled in his car seat and sleeping like, well, a baby, we carried junior through the crowded restaurant and wedged into a corner booth.
By the dirty looks from fellow diners you’d swear our son was wailing like a banshee, but he wasn’t making a peep. This was the first of many restaurant visits where patrons looks wove a giant ‘get outta here with that thing’ banner that hung over my hungry head.
That summer, I ate lunch on a restaurant patio with my son and my mother-in-law, when a group of early thirties men in business suits sat down at the table next to us. One of the men noticed my sleeping baby and almost pulled a muscle from his fierce eye rolling. The men were nice enough not to smoke, but they pushed the ashtray to the very edge of their table so it was mere inches from my baby’s face. Maybe they thought junior looked like a pack-a-day smoker.
