"Can he walk yet?" Well, no. (And I always feel like I'm supposed to apologize for it, or feel bad for it, like he's already behind and he'll never get into Ivy League now.) "Do you want to put him down so he can crawl in the grass?" No, I say, he'd probably try to eat the grass. Because that's what toddlers do. But she can't let it go.
"Are you sure you don't want to put him down? Do you live in a condo? Oh. That explains it. Because he probably hasn't seen grass too much. Maybe he's a little afraid of it." Then TOH walks over and she asks him all over again, as though the entire conversation with me didn't matter, or maybe I'd change my mind if my big tough husband made me.
What I wanted to say, but didn't in case TOH actually wanted to buy baseball cards from this lady's son, was, "We're not afraid of grass. There's plenty of grass where we live. I don't want him eating the grass because I have no idea what kind of pesticide fertilizer crap your son has dumped all over his lawn." Which strikes me as at least semi-reasonable.
Not a big deal, in the grand scheme of things. Just further exemplifies, to me, how older-generation moms have no way of relating to younger moms other than trying to tell them what to do.