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The View from the Next Booth

It’s a routine Sunday morning at my favorite neighborhood restaurant, the best place for breakfast in our part of town—that is, it’s best if you prefer to place your order while sitting at a table, to a seasoned grown-up who will bring your food as you ask for it, remembers you from last time, may even recall how you like your eggs and will check later to see if they are cooked according to your specifications.  Coffee is poured with blessed frequency into plain white ceramic mugs, and it’s unlabeled, drip-brewed coffee delivered at table-side from a glass pitcher with a plastic handle and pour spout by a cheerful, apron-wearing soul performing mission from one table to the next, topping off the parade of morning doses for the grateful, bleary-eyed patrons.

It’s the 8 to 9 a.m. crowd in this joint, the usual gathering of early eaters, a cast of characters predictably and comfortably composed of the sleep-deprived parents of small, early-rising children, a smattering of sedate senior couples, a few weary musicians on stools at the counter renewing themselves after late gigs, the occasional celebrity politely ignored and left alone over his eggs.  It is the kind of place where the waitress lays down the check but encourages you to “take your time, sweetie” over your coffee and your book, and where a waiter may be observed strolling patiently behind a departing customer using a walker, chatting her up as he totes her to-go bag and purse all the way out to her car.  It’s that kind of place.

Pushing away my clean plate and reaching to resume my book, I happen to notice a family taking seats at the table directly across.  Physical likeness telegraphs unmistakably that this is a three-generation female party, headed by an attractive blonde I guestimate at about my own age, along with her grown daughter, and two small girls, ages about three and 18 months.  A brief glance at the children and I suddenly wish that Buddy and Sis were here, because they love this place.  A few more swallows of coffee, several more pages, and another sideways glance, however, and I amuse myself pondering the marked differences between their little family party and an imaginary threesome of Buddy, Sis and me in my booth this morning.

Let’s start with Grandmother.  Watching this woman tuck a strand of her expensively cut blonde hair behind a heavy gold earring as she leans in attentively toward her granddaughter, it strikes me she could have emerged from a couple of the sorority houses I rebelled against on the campus of my distant youth and strolled through a time capsule and straight into the restaurant.  Her sheer white summer blouse is so crisply pressed that the fabric tag can be seen (and probably read, were I closer) flattened into perfect repose against the cotton below her collar.  The blouse is tucked neatly into an equally pressed print cotton skirt, which matches her purse and, of course, her heeled leather sandals.

Grandmother’s summery sartorial splendor is a rather startling contrast to the rest of the 8-9 a.m. cast at the surrounding tables, most of whom are dressed like they just rolled out of bed and are contemplating returning there as soon as they can manage it.  She contrasts with no one more than me, also a grandmother of similar age, happy in my drooping cutoffs, unruly hair yanked into an uneven ponytail, no makeup, comfortable in my favorite black weekend t-shirt with its three holes in the hem and embroidery of hound hair.

Am I insecure at the sight of women like that?  Have I just become a lazy slob who doesn’t really give a rip at this hour, in this place?  Or did I ever work at it that hard?  To quote an outrageous character in one of my favorite books:  Who knows, and babe, who cares?

This introspection doesn’t linger, because the comparison ripples around to the other occupants of their table.  The tiny girls, in particular, seem destined to carry forward Grandmother’s quiet elegance into the new generation.  Not a peep can be heard across the aisle from either the neatly combed older one, who is carefully crayoning her placemat, or her younger sister, sporting Pebbles-style spiky upright pigtails and silently shoving bits of scrambled eggs around with her chubby, miniature fingers.

I’m sure this is a lovely family of kind and well-meaning women, devoted to each other and ready to go forth on a Sunday and do their best.  May the saints attend their efforts to speak quietly, and keep hair combed and socks folded over without creases or lumps, and may matching handbags always stand at the ready in their closets, lined up next to their summer sandal collections.  I wish them all that and more, I really do.

But give me my kids who can’t stay quiet in a restaurant, even in the face of substantial bribes.   Give me their tangled and hopelessly intertwined conversation, at an impossible pace, maybe in harmony or possibly in conflict, usually too loud and laced with questions I can’t answer before the next one spills forth.  Give me Sis’ head of riotous blonde curls, often in chaos not because adults are inattentive to her hair, but because you can’t harness gale-force winds blowing across a wide open prairie.  And her obviously inherited (from me) preference to shed her shoes, sometimes even in public.  Give me Buddy’s probing questions and side-buckling giggles at the sight of the giant stuffed pickle on the wall of this very place.  Give me his precocious ability to chat up the waiter, resulting in a free extra helping as a salute to his good manners.  Give me crumbs and spills that stick to shirts and tabletops and illustrate a good meal with children, with boisterous conversation (not too obnoxious to the surrounding diners, we hope) and some unpredictable laughs.  Give me all that and my holey t-shirt, and I will call that a good time.

I watch the three generations trail away from their neat, barely soiled table.  Vive la difference, I reckon.  Now, back to my book.  And one last refill in that mug.

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Note:  Some friends have asked me where this story took place.  This very favorite spot is a deli-style restaurant called Noshville, a locally-owned Nashville treasure where the wait staff is every bit as fabulous as I’ve described, so I’m happy to name them here.  Try the french toast; they make it on challah bread, and it is out of this world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Things I Remembered on My Summer Vacation

It’s time to get back into harness after a perfectly delightful summer break, which included plenty of fun in the sun, some intriguing backroads exploration, and a restorative helping of lengthy naps.  There was lots of quality time with family, with many moments to recall fondly in days to come.

Other times, I can only hope memory will mercifully obscure, and let’s face it:  that’s always the case in the long-running drama series that is anyone’s authentic family life. A particular episode in the latter category provided a few key reminders for future reference:

  1. Plans with small children for special outings are splendid starting points, so leap in and plan away with the most golden intentions. But when the inevitable wrench is thrown, the prevailing law of all nature applies:  Adapt Quickly, or Die.
  2. If a youngster who is the adored center of this special outing seems a little off his feed, his usual enthusiasm noticeably absent, you might pause for a root-cause analysis, as the process improvement gurus like to phrase it.
  3. If optimism outwits pragmatism in the eternal sunshine of a grandmother’s heart, and you elect to proceed anyway, you better hope you have stashed paper towels and plastic bags in the car. (Come to think of it, no matter where and for what reason you are transporting small children, these are essential survival tools.)
  4. No matter how superior the hand-eye coordination, not even Mario Andretti or his ilk could drive a car with a stick shift in the middle of traffic and hold open a barf bag for a backseat occupant at the same time. Let the child aim for the bag while you put safety first, and to heck with the car interior. There’s always the professional car wash.  (There you will be forced to stomach, forgive the pun, an exorbitant up-charge for carpet cleaning, and gratefully accept the air freshener.)
  5. The resiliency of small children, however awe-inspiring in the universal sense, may rankle in its swiftness. By the time you have hosed off the floor mats, given the carpets and seats your utmost with a fat roll of paper towels, and rinsed and tossed the poor child’s outfit into the laundry, he is beginning to feel better, and may soon inquire about re-starting to the original destination. Only you can decide whether to tempt the Digestive Gods one more time, but now might be the time to shove pragmatism ahead of optimism with a firm push.  In our case, affirmation of that wisdom was provided by Nature, soon enough.
  6. A mandated recuperative period may involve special benefits that are not part of the average day for the Adored Sufferer. What’s not to like about extra access to the afternoon cartoons on TV, the vast expanse of the couch all to himself, perpetual refills for his water cup, and tender, frequent solicitations as to his well-being?
  7. And so there should be no surprise at his reluctance when the hour requires you to say, “Time to go home, Buddy.” But you may instantaneously block out the sordid details of the whole yucky business when he pleads, “Oh, no!  Can’t I stay just a little bit longer?”

 

 

 

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Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer

The Scene:  Spring dance recital.

The Location:  A clean, bright church in the heart of downtown.

The Players:  Scores of dance students in assorted matching ensembles, ranging from restless, over-stimulated three-year-olds in tremulous tutus to high-school students demurely draped and displaying the detached nonchalance of stage veterans.

The Audience:  Efficient young parents, speeding each dancer to the correct pre-show location and trailed by doting grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends.

Opening act:  If you have ever attended a dance performance to witness the efforts of your own child or another apple of your eye, you will know the fundamental laws of such occasions that universally apply.  The first is that you will be appalled by the length of the program.  How many children in the average metro area can possibly be installed in tap, ballet, and modern dance offered weekly?  Apparently, thousands.

The second law is that you may well expend your best self to claim a good seat early, but your child’s number is not first.  Or second. It is buried deep into the program, testing will and endurance, especially for the Tiny Dancers and those who love them most.  And finally, consideration for the feelings of others must prevail.  Take care about laughing audibly at someone else’s child, because yours might do something even funnier.

Settling into the pew and enjoying the pre-show anticipation in the air, I joined Sis’ paternal grandparents, with warm appreciation for their effort to drive three hours to attend. A quick scan of the program prompted a deep, cleansing breath.  The entertainment featured a series of 22 performances, and Sis and her ensemble were slotted at number 17.  A cheerful, commanding female claimed the microphone to announce the requisites and signal for lights down and music up. We were off.

Well, one wants to do the right thing, of course, and clap appreciatively for all performances. Nevertheless, about the time that some ten Tinies in leotards of multi-colored sequins were wreaking their particular brand of havoc on stage, the mind began to wander.   Memory hovered on the testimony of the immortal Bertie Wooster, hero and foil of the Jeeves stories of  British humorist P. G. Wodehouse.  Recalling a series of amateur performances at a village concert, Bertie described the opening violin solo like this:

“It was loud in spots, and less loud in other spots, and it had that quality I have noticed in all violin solos, which is seeming to last much longer than it actually did.”

Jarred out of the Wodehouse analogy by the next enthusiastic round of applause from the commendably patient audience, I re-focused and realized something interesting. By the time we clocked into about Dance Number 8 or 9, patterns emerged.  Without commentary on child psychology or related questions, I can vouch that each Tiny Troupe featured the following roles, whether undertaken voluntarily or not.

The Free Bird:  Detaches self from group, ignores teacher and all other performers, runs wildly around the stage perimeter in some routine of the dancer’s own devising.  Some Free Birds had to be removed from the stage by force majeure at the conclusion of the number.

The Statue:  Stands frozen in terror, staring fixedly into audience.  Cannot move feet, may clutch hands, possibly in subconscious plea for removal.  Bravely resists crying but clearly would like to.

The Two-Timer:  Cannot decide whether to follow teacher or fellow performers so alternates, turning from front-facing to peer-view position and back again, remaining a few steps behind throughout.  Our Sis took this role and performed it with enthusiasm (see photo above, far right).

The Good Soldier:  Stays in designated position, eyes locked on teacher, following carefully with intense concentration.  Demonstrates total commitment, but may or may not look happy about it.

The Star that’s Born:  This performer follows the routine to perfection, even adding a flourish or two of his or her own, here and there.  Lights up with genuine delight at the applause of the audience, floats off stage on a cloud.

Do these roles illuminate windows into the future for these Tinies, and into the paths they pursue?  I would pay excellent money to reconvene them in about 20 years and find out., but I will have to settle for watching our Sis.  She seemed more interested in her sparkling outfit and post-performance flowers than the actual dance, and it occurred to me I would have felt the same in her tiny ballet shoes.  Nevertheless, all survived and success was ultimately declared.

Meanwhile, the real heroes of the evening seemed to be the teachers, who led their Tiny Troupes through their routines with unwavering grace, radiating encouragement.  Proving that indeed The Show Must Go On, they were neither distracted by The Free Birds nor de-railed by the Two-Timers.   Mentally I file this latest addition to my own private list of heroes, which includes firefighters, cops, plumbers, tech support specialists, and Seal Team Six.  They have heard and seen it all, and life holds no further surprises for them.  Had I encountered one of these beacons of hope when departing at the evening’s conclusion, I would have been tempted to salute.

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Gift Wars: The Shopper Awakens

When seeking that perfect holiday gift for a child, the indulgent adult may step forward gamely with an open heart and wallet and the spirit of the season oozing from every pore. Yet even the most well-intended Giver may quickly be overwhelmed by the factors determining selection. Should the gift be: Educational? Outdoor, or indoor? Is assembly required? Is it safe, and age appropriate? Does it beep in a manner that drives nearby adults wild within the work of a moment? And the final question that trumps all others: Will the parents approve?

In pursuit of the preferred answer to that last, the Gentle Giver might even request a list from said parents, presumably achieving pre-approval. Or, perhaps the Giver is shopping for a needy child, and the sponsoring organization has helpfully provided a list of “wants.”

If you have received such a list recently, you may have stopped far short of sorting through answers to the key fundamentals listed above. And that might be because you scanned the list and said to yourself, “What in the name of Rudolph ARE these blasted things?”

Fear not, Gentle Giver. This does not make you Rip Van-Scrooge Winkle. It merely confirms that no rational adult could possibly keep up with the endless parade of new crazes on today’s toy market, along with the box-office smashes that spawn many of them—that, and have time left to navigate the average tasks of daily living. Therefore, some preliminary reconnaissance may be required if you wish to have a clue what you are buying. A full inventory of current favorites would be far too encyclopedic for these Chronicles, but below are a few market research results, gleaned from recent skirmishes in the holiday shopping wars.

Despite the obvious rhyme and potential resulting trademark infringement (though I am not a lawyer and don’t play one on TV), Doc McStuffins is not an insert in a Happy Meal and cannot be obtained in the drive-through at McDonald’s. She is, in fact, an appealing school-age girl with magical opportunities to heal sick animals and broken toys, sometimes using techniques sourced to The Big Book of Boo-Boos. I rather liked her, when I located her in the toy aisle at Target, and may have to check my local listings for the show. Only when the kids come to visit, of course, ahem.

A Hex Bug Nano is not, as the name clearly suggests, an insecticide favored by Mork. It is a tiny robotized bug that leaps around in all sorts of startling movements, guaranteed to drive small males into spasms of laughter. (Caution: Prepare to restrain any nearby dog whose divine mission is to rid the house of ground-level invaders.) Proving the eternal truth of my daughter’s recent observation (“little boys are funny”), the adult-sized boy in front of me in the checkout line noticed the Hex Bug package on the conveyor belt and eyed it with clear interest. “Where’d you find that?” he asked.          hex bug 2 verticaql

And despite the amazing accomplishments of females like Doc McStuffins and the acclaimed new heroine of Star Wars, all girl lead characters in animated Disney blockbusters for children look sadly the same—wide-eyed, head full of long, luxurious hair, predictably curvaceous. But for her hair color, Frozen’s Anna is hardly distinguishable from Ariel, the Little Mermaid, or Belle of Beauty and the Beast. So you may think you are reaching for the same emblazoned items of yesteryear, but you are mistaken—unless you are shopping at your local flea market, among the antiques and collectibles. Animators, illustrators, listen up: We hereby summon you from your drawing boards and into the 21st century.

Although seriously annoying, these commercially-inflicted dilemmas pale in comparison to the age-old predicament that strikes terror in the heart of any parent who is raising an imaginative child. Such a case was shared the other day by a good friend whose niece has specified this Christmas wish: She wants a giraffe as tall as her room who can fly her anywhere she wants to go.

What are her parents to do, we ask with hearts that ache for them? There can be only one answer: Hand the entire conduct of the affair over to Santa Claus. May the Force Be With Him. And with all of us.

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Child-proofing: Another term for Don’t Kid Yourself

Quick! Twenty minutes on the clock. Go.

Living room: Art pottery whisked off coffee table, stowed on top of fridge. DVR remote up onto mantle, same place each time, in fervent hope I can remember where to reclaim it. Embroidered throw pillows on couch, turned face-in. Hand-knit artisan chenille throw, folded, stashed.

Hall bath: Potty lid open and ready. Ample supply of TP. Footstool positioned in front of sink, rendering soap, water tap, and hand towels within reach. Small prayer muttered to the Potty Angels.

Kitchen! Most important. Contents of half-empty wine bottle (why was it open, damn thing has a twist-off cap, for pete’s sake, never mind, no time for self-recrimination) dumped, rinsed for recycling. Half-eaten chocolate bar with nuts (what’s with leaving half of things?) definitely worth saving; wrapped and hidden in high cabinet. Knife for slicing brother’s fabulous venison sausage (it was great with that wine), rinsed, dried, returned to drawer. Smelly sausage wrappers that have been torturing dog tossed into trash. (Ignore devastated dog.) Extra paper towels for inevitable spills, within reach. Flavored sparkling water, favorite permissible drink, in fridge to chill. Pre-approved snacks moved into front row in reachable cabinet; unapproved varieties, top shelf, out of sight line, behind dog medicine.

Home office: Pens capped, put away. Computer off. Bank statement, appalling credit card bill, shredded. Grownup desk-distraction toy—tiny, working miniature of my car—visible and ready if needed for floor racing again.

Hall bath: check potty lid again. Open and ready. Switch light on, to guard against seeker taking wrong turn.Harry.blog.11.15

Master bedroom: Over-sized decorative bed pillows propped up, the better for TV-watching that masquerades as nap-taking. Dirty laundry yanked off bed, chair, and stool and hurled into hamper; what have I been doing this week? Perennial favorite, a small stuffed gorilla named Harry sent by my mother to make me laugh after I had surgery years back, nestled in usual position atop pillows, watching gamely for visitors.

Hall bath: one more confirmation of potty readiness. Can’t be too careful.

Breathe, now. Listen for door-knocking: any minute, the children will be here.

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Zen and the Art of Negotiating with Toddlers

A brilliant, Harvard-trained Ph.D. who was teaching a business school class on negotiation that I attended not long ago added intriguing dimension to her lecture with an interesting personal anecdote. This insightful strategist, who consults with multi-national corporations on complex contracts and achieves astonishing compromise in intricate negotiations involving conflicting cultures and millions upon millions of dollars, had this to say about her five-year-old grandson:

“He gets whatever he wants.”

And she added this minor qualifier: “At my house, my only job is to keep him safe from harm. Otherwise, he gets whatever he wants. If he wants a cookie, he gets a cookie.”

She did not elaborate on this fascinating revelation, but I’ve pondered it many times since, and here’s my interpretation: You can train at Harvard on theory and best practice, you may be gifted with an agile intellect that equips you to whip corporate bozos into shape right, left, and center, but you can’t negotiate with toddlers. There is no way to win, so save your dignity and give it a miss.

Not long after I attended this lecture, I was gifted with one of many examples of this Fundamental Truth of Grandparenthood (FTG).

I procured for Brother’s birthday a tiny, intricately accessorized, toddler-scale riding car, a battery-powered version of my own set of wheels. He loves my car (even at life size, it looks rather like a toy), so I hoped this would be a hit, and it seemed just so. Sadly, however, it was pouring rain on the actual birthday, so his parents authorized a road test in the hallway of the house. The technical skills of forward and backward acceleration were quickly and masterfully achieved, but the judgment to check the surroundings first was, like Batteries, Not Included, and the first casualty of this mastery was Small Sister. Hovering behind and hoping for a ride, she got knocked to the floor and partially pinned under the rear fender in the work of a moment. No more, said the parents over the wailing, until we can take it outside.

The sun obligingly appeared the next morning, so the license to drive on the sidewalk was immediately applied for to the appropriate authorities. Better at least try, I admonished myself guiltily, to talk about staying out of harm’s way.

Okay, I said sternly to the miniature Mario Andretti, gathering him close and giving him the old eyeball, it’s time to talk about safe driving. “Okay,” says Mario, unsure where this is going. To drive safely, I roll on with the Darth Vader tone, you mustn’t run into other people. Especially babies. Surprisingly, this prompts an immediate, sorrowful assent.

“We don’t hit babies,” he repeats, with a sad shake of the small head.

And no dogs or cats, his father supplies, watching nearby. This also brings the necessary response, intently spoken. “We don’t hit babies, or dogs, or cats,” he agrees, solemnly.

This exchange occurs near a window overlooking the front yard and framing the intoxicating sight of sunshine and freedom. He checks the view carefully for a moment, then turns back to me for his final salvo. It is delivered with the head cocked slightly, hope blended with just the facts, ma’am, and the keen instinct not to smile in presumed triumph. “There are no babies or cats or dogs out there NOW, Evie.”

Game, set, match. We are off for the open road.

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Going Home (Part 3 of 3)

The departures gate creaks open, admitting the mid-day sun and a puff of air into my stuffy front hallway and illuminating the piles of luggage and Absolute Necessities that travel everywhere.  The pile is crowned by the ragged and ubiquitous Mr. Bunny, an overturned Spiderman travel cup with a cat hair stuck to the spout, and a single, sparkling metallic Tom’s toddler shoe, forlornly waiting to be reunited with a restless, chubby foot.  The taller travelers load themselves up like coatracks at an oversubscribed office holiday party, silently balancing items from every appendage, sometimes in multiples, navigating carefully with the weight that swings this way and that, taking silent inventory as they start forward.

Oh!  Two more items that mustn’t be left behind:  The children.  I reach out a hand to the older, wondering if his forlorn expression mirrors my own, trying to re-arrange my thoughts and, I hope, my face.  He accepts my hand, and we follow in procession behind the staggering Coatracks, keeping a safe distance from their swinging loads.  Come on, urge The Coatracks, time to go, time to get home.  To blow out of here and leave behind the dead air that briefly follows a fighter jet’s billowy plume across a bright sky.

What to say, I’m pondering as we trundle on, but he speaks first.  Perhaps I am imagining it, but I choose to hear a tiny chime of hope in his voice when he asks:

“Are you coming with us?”

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The Visit (Part 2 of 3)

A good Girl  Scout or former camp counselor probably would have laid out a schedule, maybe even in writing, with proven estimates of time required for each activity, interspersed with breaks for healthy, pre-approved snacks.  Instead, it was just Me, alone for the afternoon with Brother and Small Sister and mortified to feel like such a rank amateur.  Clearly, if you believe the Gospel According to Facebook (and who doesn’t?), other grandparents use these cherished times as effortless opportunities to bond kindred souls across the generations.

Right.  We now return to our regularly scheduled program, and that activity list that unfolded in a more spontaneous fashion:

  1. Create tent between two chairs using old sheet.  Show children how to hide in it without tripping over entrance flap and upending structure onto curious dog, hovering optimistically within the danger zone.  Snap photo and text to absent parents to attest all is under control and old-fashioned fun abounds.
  2. Move on to Creativity Time with crayons and Dinosaur Jumbo Coloring Book.  Hang finished masterpieces on fridge.  Remove half-bitten fuchsia crayon from mouth of Small Sister, gingerly and cleverly without getting bitten.
  3. Shift ho for the Great Outdoors, remembering tricycle handily acquired at garage sale for $9.  Console jealous, wailing Small Sister, too short to pedal, while Brother rockets away, out of reach.  Caving in when consolation fails, try letting her stand on trike’s back rail, clutching Brother’s shoulders.  Naturally, she lets go on the first forward lurch. Leap forward barely fast enough to catch her in backwards flop, inches before small head would have collided with sidewalk pavement.
  4. Check watch.  Battery might be dead, as it indicates only 45 minutes have elapsed.
  5. Drop to the ground exhausted, swamped by feelings of certain inadequacy.  Whatever, I sigh, this lawn is huge and secluded from traffic.  What if they just run wild for a bit; do I have to stage-direct every minute?  Who am I kidding; could I, even if I tried?

Freed from suggestions, direction, or clutching, anxious hands, Brother takes off running in wide circles around me and Sister, who for once seems to realize that giving chase would be futile.  He runs along with a rich, shouted monologue that may relate to medieval sword-fighting, or space travel, or possibly both.  I can’t catch all the narrative.  Why isn’t he tired yet?  But pretty soon, I’m rooting him on, wishing I could be along for the ride.

Run, Brother.  Run like the Superheroes who are never far from your imagination. Run from the nap you don’t want to take.  Run for the questions that pour out, too fast to be answered in grown–up tempo, and for the ones that don’t really want answers, anyway.  Run to amaze your sister, as mesmerized and adoring as any loyal sports fan.

Run, Brother, run.

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The Arrival (Part 1 of 3)

I don’t know if you’ve ever been smack dab in the path of a tornado, as I once was, many years ago, but it’s true what they say:  There’s an unsettling, yellow-tinged calm all around, just before the maximum-force winds blast through.  That was the atmosphere in my front hall just before I opened the front door to my smiling, efficient son-in-law and his two junior-level partners in crime.  First over the threshold was the older of the Juniors, a fast-talking miniature of his father, and close on his heels was the small, determined rendering of her mother some three decades back.  Ages four and two, they were, in the usual pattern, both talking at the same time.

Son-in-law deposits a few items of paraphernalia, rattles off a projected return time, then blows back out again in the work of a moment.  But…wait.  No printed Instruction Guide?  Are equipment or tools of some sort required?  Should I be embarrassed to even think such thoughts?

No matter.  Closing the door behind him and drawing a deep, cleansing breath, I turn to receive a very deliberate, eyeball-to-eyeball stare from Small Sister, three feet below sea level.  What’s in that look?  I see humor, I’m certain and grateful, and there’s curiosity, I get that, but clearly, and first in line, there’s assessment.  She’s not much for the long,  complex phrasing at this early stage, but here’s the statement written all over her face:  I’m pretty sure I can take you.

We’ll see about that, I think as we nod to each other, like two pro wrestlers preparing to make the first move on the mat.  I sidestep her for the moment and deliver in her brother’s direction the quintessential question that begins and ends all adult/toddler scenarios:

Do you need to go potty?

No, no, no, he intones firmly, I want a snack and apple juice.

Surely I’m on solid ground here, I was a waitress once, I know how to fill orders, so I hop to it pretty snappily and am rustling cups and napkins when suddenly he streaks past in a blur, pointed back toward the bathroom and shrieking at the top of his lungs, HELP me, Evie!  HELP me!

I reach the finish line just a nose behind him and ascertain that a particularly stubborn snap on the pants is the source of this momentary terror. I wrest it open just in time for the business that must result.  But disregard the relief of this near-miss, because it is followed immediately by a high-pitched scream from the direction of the hallway.   Just around the wall from the bathroom, I locate Small Sister face-down on the hardwood floor, where her chubby, unwieldy feet presumably landed her in an ill-fated attempt to join the field in the Potty Derby.  I hoist her up to find her nose already bruising and oozing big red droplets.

Oh, perfect.  Parents haven’t been gone 15 minutes, and already we’ve drawn blood.

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