You, yourself?

Last week, R had to get the last of the PCV vaccines. So we took the usual evening appointment and walked into a room full of waiting people. R was at her boisterous best. Screaming, running, laughing- she did it all. Even made up a little game of running between LoML and me across the room with fits of giggles. Which prompted the mom of a rather sad looking nine month old to strike up a conversation with me.

'Is she always like this- so hyper?'

(my maternal instincts so proud) 'Yep'

'How old is she? 1 year?'

'Yep- 15 months' (notice the lack of interest in my tone)

'At home also she's like this? You must have a very clean home!' (laughs)

'Yes!' (I actually DO have a spotless home. I pay my staff to keep it that way)

'You're here for vaccination?'

'Yes. PCV' 

'Oh- he's got a tiny lump where he got his injection- he's 9 months old. Didn't let me massage him. Who massages her? You?'

'Yes, I do'

'You, yourself?'

'Yes, I me myself. Since birth.'

'Really?'

By this time the friendly assistant had shouted R's name so I quickly gathered my stuff and baby.  What did she mean? You, yourself? Just because I was wearing a pair of jeans with a decent t-shirt and had bright red toe nailpolish didn't mean I couldn't massage my baby, did it?  I guess it was the nailpolish.