Can We be too Authentic?

I took my daughter to her doctor appointment. Just her four month checkup and four vaccines.

“In the next couple of months, she should start passing things back and forth between her hands.”

“She’s been doing that for at least three or four weeks,” I informed the doctor.

“Really? Well, her advanced development will cut down on questions about her behavior.”

“Questions?”

“Well, since she’s in the 92nd percentile, people will start to think she’s much older than she is. If she is both big and developmentally advanced, fewer people will perceive that she is behind.”

I thought that was good. No need for anyone to think a baby is behind in their first year of life. We made an appointment for her six month checkup before heading to the elevator down to the parking garage.

As the doors were just beginning to close, a mother and her ten or eleven year old son rushed toward me. I put out my arm out to let them in.

“Thank you,” the mother caught her breath and smoothed her son’s shirt.

“Of course,” I responded.

“I can’t wait to pick up Mocha from the groomer! She must miss us,” the son addressed his mother.

“What kind of dog?” I asked, presuming they weren’t having a cat, rodent, or reptile groomed.

“She’s a Chilier.” The son sounded proud.

“Is that related to a King Charles Cavalier?” I asked. I have always known more about dog breeds than is really necessary in day to day life.

“Well, we think she’s a mix of a King Charles Cavalier and something else, we think Chihuahua,” the mother clarified.

“That’s good. You always want a mix. We inbreed dogs to the point that they have health problems. Purebred King Charles Cavaliers, for example, have a condition where their brain outgrows their head. So really, you have a choice between an incredibly expensive surgery that doesn’t always work and even when it does the dog is permanently handicapped or putting the dog down. It’s really sad.”

The doors of the elevator opened as I finished my know-it-all-too-much-information diatribe. The mother quickly and forcefully grabbed her son’s hand and ushered him to her car. At that moment, my mother’s voice echoed words she repeated to me many times in childhood: “You don’t have to always tell ALL you know.”