Almost every morning since Carter's birth, we have gone on a morning walk together. I pop him into his Moby Wrap and make a beeline to my neighborhood Starbucks, where I get a much-needed java to kickstart my day and rouse me out of my sleepless mommy haze. Then we wander around the neighborhood for a half-hour or so - he generally conks out right away, his sweet baby face tucked snugly into my chest, as I have my morning phone call with my mother.
During our walk this morning, I passed a scuffy 30-something dad pushing his toddler daughter in a stroller. He looked us over and asked "How old?" "Eleven weeks," I told him proudly. "Nice. Congratulations!" he said.
Walking away from this simple encounter, I smiled, thinking of all the other similar exchanges I have had with other young parents since Carter's birth. Whenever these exchanges occur - which they do often - I walk away with the realization that parenthood has gained me entry to a very special club. These are my people now, and though I may know nothing else about them, we share a common thread in our harried, sleep-deprived lives.
My husband and I have joined the ranks of the Baby People, and as a result, it seems that everywhere we go we are amongst friends.