Kids on the coast

by Marita Martinez

When my baby was born, one of my delightful family members jokingly asked if I wanted to send her back to the baby shop and exchange her for one that didn’t have red hair.

Wait, hold the phone: What? What a ridiculous question to be asked after you have just spent the past twelve hours in labour in what was probably, no make that definitely, the most unimaginable pain you’ll ever feel in your entire life! Why yes, I wanted to reply, how about I do a little swapsie; I might just steal that little brunette baby over there in the nursery and replace her with my redhead baby. Shhhh, no one will ever know. As a proud mother of a gorgeous redhead, I can safely say I was able to laugh the comment off and file it in the let’s-pretend-that-never-happened section of my brain.

Then there’s the frustration of people mistaking your beautiful baby girl for a boy. You would think dressing her in head-to-toe pink and having her ears pierced would be a dead giveaway, but no, apparently all babies are gender neutral these days. No one likes to be asked whether their baby is a boy or a girl, it’s probably up there with other awkward questions such as, “when are you due?” when you aren’t even pregnant! (Insert death-stare here).

Being a parent of a redhead I’m used to receiving comments from complete and utter strangers about my baby’s hair. Nearly every time we leave the house we’ll get at least one hair-related remark, without fail. When my little one was only a few weeks old, we went on an outing to Domain Central, probably to purchase a baby related product that I would soon forget I owned, only to discover in the meantime my bub had outgrown it, rendering it completely useless. Baby brain anyone?

So I was carrying my little miss along the sidewalk when a young girl passed us. A rather loud sound resembling the word “ranga” escaped her mouth. These were the days where my little one was not only sporting a bright orange shade of tufts, but also a mini Mohawk that wouldn’t stick down no matter how much water I put on it. Even after wearing hats, her tufts would sprout straight back up again. She could have given David Beckham a run for his money with that hairstyle. So I was feeling a little on edge about her hair at the best of times.  Besides the fact that I found the remark slightly comical, I wasn’t sure how to take it. I decided to build a bridge and get over it; if it’s the price you have to pay for having a gloriously beautiful redhead, then so be it. I certainly won’t be taking her back to the baby shop for an exchange. Although if it’s true what they say about redheads having wild tempers, ask me again when she turns 15.