Mom and Lex and I went to the big park on Saturday and when I was pushing the boy on the swings, a woman about my age and her daughter about Lex's age took the other swing. We ascertained that we both had 2.5-year-old kids, and then she looked at me quizzically.

“Do I know you from the baby massage class?”

“No,” I said. “I didn't take that one. But we took the getting-ready-for-birth class, and I went to the Mommy and Me group at the hospital a few times.”

“I went to that, too,” she said. “But just a few times.”

“Yeah. The last time I went, everyone was bagging on TV and I couldn't take it, so I stood up in support of it.”

“THAT'S IT!” she cried. “That's where I saw you. Oh, God, I was so glad you said that back then.”

“I'm not one to keep my mouth shut,” I understated. “I remember, I blogged about it when I got home, about the grandma who was there who was so proud of her grandkids because they didn't watch TV but did play hours-long imaginative games with sticks. And at that point, I realized that apparently, nobody cool gave birth when I gave birth. They were all way too sanctimonious for me. Present company excluded, of course.”

She nodded. “I had the same experience. My daughter was premature, and every time I went, people said,”Oooh, she's so tiny! I got tired of it.”

“Frankly, I'm impressed you remember me,” I said.

“I always remember faces. It's kind of a curse.”

“Going through life wondering, 'where do I know that person from?'” I asked.

“Exactly,” she said.

Lex was tired of the swings at that point (or, more factually, I was tired of pushing him), so I took him down and went back to the bench where Mom sat. She had a bemused expression on her face.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Most of it. It appears your reputation precedes you.”

“It usually does, Mom. It usually does.” And I picked up my ukulele and strummed out the IZ version of “Over the Rainbow.”