Why I'm Afraid to Talk...or Should Be

A gaffe of epic proportions:

"Thank you for watching my son," I said, hanging the diaper bag on the hook and signing in my baby boy for the hour-and-a-half church service.

"You're welcome," the volunteer said, another little baby boy on her hip.

"Who is this little one?" I asked innocently, squeezing his chubby baby toes.

"Oh, he belongs to me," she answered with a smile.

Perhaps it was the way she beam-smiled at me - not exactly like a tired mama, more like a doting grandmother. Or perhaps it was the fleeting thought that her grown daughters work in town, I had seen them at a store.

"Is this your first grandbaby?"

"No, this is my son," she said neutrally, not overly mad and not overly nice.

Well, it's time to patch things up, said my brain.

"I am so sorry," I said.

Deep down, I'm still shouting to the narrator, "Don't say it! Don't say it!" But it always ends with me, tactless and unafraid:

"For some reason, I thought your daughter, the one who works in town, was pregnant."

Crickets chirp. And you can hear me slap myself on the forehead.

Her look wasn't overly mad or overly nice, just overly disgusted.

The End.

Resting Near the Delete Button,
Karen