In Concord last Wednesday, I was walking sweet B down the street in her stroller. A middle-aged man came out of his house headed for his car, and when he got close enough, asked, “How old’s your son?”

0 for 2.

(He was clearly a nice guy, B doesn’t yet care, and I’m delighted to be mistaken for someone young enough to have a toddler, so I just said, “Two.” Maybe that makes it 0 for 3.)