So a quick Diet Coke run turned into an hour at the library when we looked to see what the caravan of strollers was up to: Story Time.
There were easily 50 kids under 2, who nearly all sat entranced when the librarian read and told her flannel board stories, and nearly all acted or clapped along to the little songs. When she'd arc the book around to show everyone the new page, a sea of little heads would follow, like a rally at Baby Wimbledon.
Being a newbie and thoroughly unprepped for the event, the kid sat right up front and faced everyone, assuming, I guess, that they were all there to see/entertain her.
The breakdown in our Judith Warner-ian Northwest DC neighborhood: it was pretty evenly split between nannies and moms. There were exactly two dads, one of whom complimented the other on his kid's Blondie t-shirt. There may have been one grandmother. Oh, and just three Bugaboos (we were on foot).
What was missing: undershirts. Kids were doing the Miffy Lift all over the place, flashing their diaper waistbands and naked bellies like, well, like a Baby Mardi Gras. Haven't you people ever heard of