When Baby Baboo (not his real name) was just a few weeks old, our pediatrician called it: “People are going to think he’s adopted.”
Don’t be mad at him. He wasn’t making any sort of commentary on us (I am about as pale as they come; my husband is from India.). He was trying to warn us, in his inimitably humorous and direct way. He was taking care of us along with our child.
And he was right. The first time it happened, the baby was 14 weeks old.
“Where did you get him?”
Yesterday, in the grocery store, it happened twice in the space of 15 minutes.
“Are you related to him?”
“Is he yours?”
Generally, I feel that the people who say these things are simply not fully in charge of their mouths. They see a gorgeous baby, they see a mom who doesn’t “match,” and they scramble for phrasing that’s not rude but will get them the answer they want. People are curious, and I’m cool with that.
For the record, nobody has been malicious, and the woman who asked where I got him was actually being sensitive. She is not only very sweet, but adopted two kids from Guatemala. And to her credit, she felt horrible when I replied that he came from me and my husband, who is from India. (But my God, I was dying to say I’d ordered him off the Internet.)
I’ve been able to keep my sense of humor about these occasions so far, and there have been some really lovely moments, too. During last week’s grocery run, a woman of Middle Eastern descent doubled back to comment on the baby’s “wonderful olive complexion,” and said it reminded her of her brother’s when he was little. She never queried me about my relationship to him. Instead we chatted about her heritage, and later I thought, “Huh. Maybe that’s what it would be like to live in a post-racial society.”
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Mama-Come-Lately 