Rośe Conversations

My weight transfers from hip to hip as my eyes dart over, past the bottles of wine I stand behind. To my little boy playing on the lawn with his daddy.
I'm trying to tell my customers about the delicacy of the vanilla notes that dance across the rośe they are tasting. How can I bring up casually that the cute baby over there is mine? Though I feel like I'm covered in it, that new mom skin. It isn't so obvious to strangers. When my baby isn't right next to me, I feel this aching, nagging desire to identify myself as a mother. As if withholding such information is being misleading.
"Oh is that your baby over there?"
Thank goodness she finally asked.
"Yeah, that's my son! He's 9 months..." But I don't stop there. Suddenly I'm emmbarassed that I have to bring my baby to work with me. How do I explain the anxiety? How do I explain that I didn't really try to give him a bottle till recently, and now it's kinda too late. I stumble across my words, knowing it's too much information for someone I just met. For someone who just wanted to taste some wine.
"He won't take a bottle, and he is a busy boy, so he nurses every hour or so. He doesn't really like food either. So all those rolls, I made all of them. So he just comes with me everywhere." I spill.
It's the truth, it's a simple truth, but it sits awkwardly in my belly. I feel inconvenient to most everybody, but I feel so deeply connected to my son that it outweighs the inconvenience. He's 9 months, he only drinks from my breast, and he is always by my side.
I finish pouring the pinot noir, the Avelina, and our marechel foch, and bring the subject back to the weather, and how big our grapes will get this year.
"This weather is way too hot, but the grapes love it! They should be grateful they aren't breastfeeding every hour."
It slipped again, another breastfeeding comment. My confidence withers knowing my ability to make small talk has evaporated.
They bought a couple bottles of the rose though. So I must not have been too bad.