Nothing to see here, folks. It’s just a baby

I never knew what to expect from strangers when my son was a baby and I carried him around in his frontpack.

There were the inevitable smiles and comments of how cute he was. These were the most predictable and welcoming. But some strangers did or said things to my son that qualified as very strange.

Maybe it was because he was more accessible when he was presented to the world chest-level and out in front. His legs and arms were free to swing, kick and grab. People could see his face and emotions, something not as easy to observe if he’d been ensconced in a stroller.

Wearing him strapped to my chest was my choice, and I was aware I was the one responsible for the reactions from strangers.

Personally, I don’t like strollers. Maybe my opinion was cemented because I got pregnant when I lived in Seoul, South Korea, where most moms still wear their babies snuggled up close, face-to-face and chest-to-chest. In my old neighborhood of working-class Koreans, I saw grandmothers with their grandchildren strapped to their backs in podaegis, a soft quilted blanket with straps.

Sometimes I saw strollers in more affluent neighborhoods, but the babies that were worn seemed most content. That’s what I would do with my baby, I thought.

I would smile when I saw these kids strapped to their caretakers, thinking they were so cute, not knowing I soon would be fielding reactions from strangers regarding my own child.

“Let me see his face!” a grandmother-aged lady said to me while trying to peer around just inches from my sleeping son’s head. He was in his frontpack but his head was covered and supported with a sunshade strap. Trying to be polite, I was thinking “personal space” inside, but managed to just smile and walk away.

“Whatcha got there?” asked a six-year old girl who immediately informed me her name was Holly. Holly’s mom and I both laughed at her question while her mom told her that I was carrying a baby.

“Ooh a baby,” she said, with wide bright blue eyes. “Is it a boy baby or a girl baby?” At least she understood what I had in there was alive.

One elderly lady reached out and actually grabbed my son’s chubby legs as she passed us walking down the street. I was too stunned to react. But a stranger touching my child definitely felt wrong.

Men tended to have either no reaction to my son or else extreme ones. My sister went outside her house with my son strapped on one evening and told me her 50-year-old male neighbor’s reaction.

“His eyes popped right out of his face,” she chuckled. “He said: ‘Wow! You had a baby? I know it’s been a while since I’ve seen you but didn’t think it was that long...’” He was nonetheless relieved when she said the baby was her nephew.

But the strangest thing happened at a thrift store in Kentucky. My then 4-month-old and I were browsing the aisles when a 30-something-year old white man with a mullet and Southern twang passed by. “Hey,” he said to my son. “What do you like to eat? Fried rice? Wontons? Bulgogi?”

“Whaaat?” I was thinking with a weird smile on my face, but the man continued oblivious to my discomfort. “Oh, he smiled when I said bulgogi. I called it.”

A bit taken aback, I retorted to his retreating jeers and the back of his head. “He only likes breast milk.”

Lisa Schroeder of Tacoma is a retired journalist, a full-time parent, and part-time writer. She’s one of five News Tribune reader columnists for 2019. Reach her at lischro@gmail.com or on Twitter @schroedli.