Childish Encounter

Author's Note: Place yourself in the shoes of a toddler and ask yourself, "Do I really like where my life is going?" 

When your mother rolls onto the floor, her body rocking back and forth in groans and her arms and legs sprawling like a silly, fat starfish, the best thing you could do is laugh, right? 

Laugh despite the rancid flavor of brussels sprouts and vinaigrette that lingers on your tongue, encompassing your mouth in a cultish chant of death. Laugh even though your cheek still tingles in stinging electricity from when the woman's calloused palm slapped that meaty roundness of flesh for refusing to swallow said brussels sprouts. Laugh no matter how dreadfully repulsive the training pants you're wearing feel after you forgot that you were potty-trained and did a number one in them from laughing so hard. 

For Nico, even hearing his father hollering for someone to phone 911 didn't faze the toddler. He simply doubled over in that square, wooden highchair, with his face landing in a sticky plate and the safety bar across his belly digging into his empty stomach. His thick head of hair soon drenched in salad sauce and apricot mustard glaze shook with each chortling heave of his abdomen. He couldn't help such tremors, for no matter how many things were taking place around his small self, the sight of the big woman on the floor like a flopped-over stuffed toy was far too humorous.

All the tables around Nico's were taken with a gasp of confusion or horror, whichever happened first. The white-clad servers, even the nice lady that snuck Nico packets of sugary delight when his parents weren't looking, rushed to the aid of the fallen woman, no longer refined and poised. 

They crowded, close, one hollering into a cellphone, his voice enraged by the calamity. Another pushed the gathering mob back, trying desperately to give the downed woman some space. Nico's father caressed his wife's hair, holding her hand tightly and only turning his face away from her to hide his alarm. He was silent, she was bellowing the indecipherable language of a woman in labor, and Nico was giggling so hard that his nostrils sucked in that bitter Italian dressing from the plate, causing him to nearly choke on the burning heat that seared through his nasal passage and throat.

Soon, another man dressed in a white uniform, much different from the white of the waiters, made his way through the crowd, ordering people to make room for his majesty. The witnesses all nodded with eyes downcast and their heads bowing in respect of his authority. 

Nico stopped his laughter for this. He recognized the man as a doctor, one of those blood-sucking fiends that used swabs and needles to do their dirty jobs. He only knew this since the visit he had with the hospital a few weeks ago. He had to have shots in his legs and blood drawn from his arms and examinations on a cold, steel table and poking and prodding like he was a cantaloupe at the supermarket. He sat up, alert, wiping the sticky flavors from his face with his stubby fingers and transferring them to the leg of his new capris, only managing to smear the sauces more into his eyes and nose.

The doctor inspected Nico's mother, called in a few of his cohorts, and began to place her on a long flat board with this new hoard of people dressed like himself. Nico's father talked to the doctor the whole time, mumbling things about his lack of observance in the situation. "She said she wasn't feeling well," he said, his flustered words floating through the tense atmosphere. "We shouldn't have gone out. She insisted. But, we shouldn't have gone out."

"Calm down," the doctor ordered, his voice authoritative enough to cause the entire restaurant to drain to a hushed whisper. "She'll be fine. We'll just take her over to M.H. There's absolutely nothing to worry about."

"I wanted to go to Sacred!" the woman burst as she slammed her balled fists on the linoleum.

"We have a room for you at M.H. It'll be just as comfortable."

"My doctor knows what I want!"

"If we try to get to Sacred, you'll end up giving birth in the ambulance. That baby isn't going to wait."

She shut up as they hauled her out, Nico's father following close behind. If he had a tail, it would be between his legs like a defeated animal.

Nico waited. He was done laughing, done being force-fed the fancy, adult meal, and done sitting in his urine-soaked underwear. He chewed on his thumb as he waited, watching the scene around him quickly return to the boring, formal setting it was before his mother fell from her chair. 

She fell from her chair. 

He giggled at the thought, remembering her heavy belly weighing her down as if she had swallowed an iron watermelon. She had told him about the baby inside that bubble under her shirt. She said she had a pouch like a kangaroo, and when the baby was ready, it would peek out and greet him. Nico still waited for that phenomenon to happen.

"They left you?" The nice waitress crouched before Nico, her big eyes even bigger now that she saw Nico was alone.

Nico wiggled his toes, trying to fling off the new shoes he wore. He kicked the waitress' knee, using it to pull the heel of the shoe from his foot. He didn't answer the woman, but stared, biting his tongue and pulling a hand caked with drying paste through his just as sticky hair. He didn't care much that his parents left, but he did wish to have those tight shoes off his feet.

The girl smiled, a face of simplicity and playfulness. She stood and pulled a wet dishcloth from her apron. "I suppose in a frenzy like that, things are forgotten." She eyed the toddler, cleared and wiped the table down in expert swiftness, and sauntered away toward the kitchen doors.

When the nice girl returned, she had a warm rag to clean Nico's grimy face and hair and a plate full of pasta noodles with white sauce. "Kid food isn't really our specialty here, but this is a standing favorite. It's better than brussel sprouts, that's for sure."

Nico picked up a few noodles with his fingers, shoving them into his mouth as if he had never learned to use a fork. The creamy alfredo soon washed the lingering bite of baby cabbage from his taste buds, swarming them with warm, cheesy goodness.

The girl sank into the chair Nico's father had been sitting in, stretched her arms across the table, and pressed her face on the hard surface. "It's been a day," she mumbled through the dark hair that fell across her hidden face. Her head shot up almost as soon as she said this, her hair filling her eyes like a sheer curtain. She simply brushed it away to look at the toddler again. "I suppose my day was better than yours."

Nico crammed more noodles into his face like a starving lion eating a gazelle. He liked the feeling of the warm sauce on his cheeks and the tip of his nose and his hands. It had been a while since he was allowed to use his hands to eat, and the alfredo sauce was like a snuggly and tasty bubble bath for his face, a light compared to the devilish darkness of the Italian salad.

"Good, isn't it?" The waitress leaned her face on her palms, her elbows not leaving the table. Nico thought it was a violation. No adult he knew ever let their elbows even brush the table when they reached for something.

She pulled a sugar packet from the pocket in her apron and poured it onto the clean table in a little mountain of white crystals. "If you get the chance, don't grow up. Being an adult is too much work." She licked her pinky and pressed it into the top of the mountain, turning the snowcapped hill into a squashed volcano. "It's far worse than being forgotten at a restaurant." 

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