Scopophobia

I'm not used to people staring at me. Or strangers talking to me. I've never been the girl who people stare at or strangers talk to (unless they're slightly scary, possibly crazy strangers). But whenever I'm anywhere with Westley, I feel people looking. And it kind of makes me feel weird.

I can't blame people for looking. Westley is beautiful. He's alert. His eyes are enormous. And he's happy to smile and babble at almost anyone, provided they smiled at him first. But when people look at him--especially if he's not attached to me in a baby carrier--I feel a rush of creep-outedness that I can't really explain. It's not exactly the animal-instinct, protective Mama-Bear thing, but I'm sure that's part of it. It's more like embarrassment, coupled with the sensation of suddenly finding myself in the spotlight but not knowing how I got on stage in the first place. I thought tonight was just the dress rehearsal.

My relationship with being looked at is problematic. I grew up in Los Angeles, where looking--in all senses of the word--is heightened, and the Imaginary Audience is real. I was never one of the skinny, beautiful people. I wasn't good enough. Therefore, being looked at was not for me, and I tried to get used to that. I didn't trust the occasional person who did look, since they must be selling something, or trying to make me think they thought I was beautiful while silently pointing and laughing at my ugliness... Growing up in a place that nurtures adolescent paranoia can give even the most secure person hang-ups about looking, her looks, being looked at.

Now that I have a baby, people are definitely looking. They crane their necks to see under the stroller sun shade, or stare at him around the straps of the front pack. Many of them smile kindly at me, but I'm too uncomfortable to enjoy the attention I thought I always wanted.

Yesterday, I was changing Westley's diaper in a public restroom, when a woman started looking over my shoulder at him.

"Wow, what a cutie!"

I didn't look up. "Thanks."

"How old is he?"

"Uh...almost six months."

"Wow, he's really thriving!"

What the hell does she mean by that? "Ha ha...uh huh." I mean, I guess he is, but...what the hell does she mean by that?

"How big was he when he was born?"

Oh fuck, this is a weight thing. "Thriving" is her clever euphemism for "fat." She thinks he's too big for his age.

I couldn't remember Westley's birth weight. "About...7, uh, 7 pounds...12 ounce-, no, 7 pounds, 14 ounces."

"Wow, almost 8 pounds!"

At this point, my mother stepped out of a stall and struck up a conversation with the woman about the baby. I never took my eyes off him, and tried to remember to close up the travel-size baby powder before stuffing it back in my bag.

Sometimes I can't believe that my mind is capable of turning a kind stranger's smalltalk into concerns over my baby's weight. This isn't just about my growing up surrounded by movie stars and models. Having a baby seems to have unearthed a multitude of phobias I didn't know were still there.

The past two or three times that someone unfamiliar has talked to him, Westley has smiled at first and then looked up at me with a puzzled expression. He's too little to be doing any social referencing; I think he's just confirming that, no, Mommy is over there--this is someone new. I smile at him and tell him, "Yeah, it's okay, dude. You can say 'hi.'" My smile seems to make him feel safe, and it makes me feel not unsafe.

I want to protect Westley from creepy strangers selling lies. But more than that, I desperately want to protect him from my insecurity.

.....................................