I have an awkward relationship with my butcher. The father is nice and doddering. He claims he can guess the sex of babies in utero, so when I was pregnant, he said, "It's a boy!" which I already knew, but people like to be experts, so I deferred to his magical knowledge of meat and gender.
His first son who works there most days always sounds like he has a Godfather-style sore throat. Last winter, he was right into the pregnancy talk which was pretty tedious, to tell you the truth, but there are things you have to endure when you become spherical. It was a step up from the creepy-flirty nature of our pre-pregnancy banter.
A couple of months ago, I came in with G. and we had a normal talk about babies, and just as I was about to leave, he shouted across the store: "You breastfeeding?" "Um. Yeah." I answered and left feeling kind of embarassed and confused.
The other day, I ran in while my mom watched G. in the car. The second brother was working. . "So, when's the big day?" awkward. "Um, the big day was four months ago. I guess I have a big of weight to go, eh?" Now admittedly, empire waist tops are kind of maternity-like. And the crossover detail, after 2 hours in the humid heat, had become a bit scandalous around the cleavage. But could this explain the final comment, out of the blue, as I left?: "You breastfeeding?" "Yes." I took back my bank card and waited, morbidly, for the followup comment. What is it with the butcher brothers and their fixation on breastfeeding? "That can't help things, then," he said knowingly.
