I don’t want to start a revolution but I’m tired of apologizing for my children’s behavior when they’ve done nothing wrong. Let me explain. My kids and I had just been seated in an International House of Pancakes in Las Cruces. This specific franchise had been painted gaudy colors so the building looked like a Day-Glo circus tent. Everything about the dining experience promised to be loud but we didn’t care. When you are travelling with a pair of kids under the age of 10, loud is your middle name.
The host sat us in a booth behind a group of businessmen conducting a breakfast meeting and across the aisle from an elderly woman holding a thick paperback. Poppy and London are pretty well behaved when it comes to restaurants. My three brothers and I did not do as well eating outside our home, especially in places that had “international” in its name. Within minutes, we would have mixed up the four types of syrup, adding shaved crayon pieces to our concoctions created solely for the next customer lucky enough to be seated at our booth.
My children are not as unruly. After we placed our orders, London burst into song. Although the ditty didn’t show any signs of musical genius, it did contain a happy message. “I love the world, it is so nice,” he sang, rocking his head back and forth with glee. Poppy and I grinned at each other, recognizing a cute moment when we see one. I glanced around, wondering if anyone else was basking in the warm light of my boy’s ballad. I caught the eye of the old woman, her closed book next to the strewn remains of a Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. I smiled but she returned my look with a frown and furrowed brow combo.
“Shhh,” she said to me, slapping a bony finger across cracked lips.
“Excuse me?” London and Poppy realized I was speaking to someone outside our booth and turned toward the woman with the James Joyce spectacles and gray hair loosely gathered in an unkempt bun.
“Tell him to be quiet.” She nodded in London’s direction as if he was a dog who had just crapped on her prize-winning petunias. Even at three, London is smart enough to know when he’s being insulted so he quickly darted under the table in true Wilder fashion.
“Isn’t there a library in Las Cruces?” I asked. “A place where you wouldn’t be disturbed by my son’s cheerful little tune?”
“Dad!” Poppy said, embarrassed at my arguing with a woman who was alive when they invented the wheel.
“Hold on, honey.” I gave the old bat an icy stare.
“I don’t want to make this an issue with you,” she said to me.
“Well, you already did, didn’t you?” Even though I’m grossly out of shape, I knew I could take the baby hater. I had at least 40 years on her and she had no cane, walker or any other weapon I could see.
“Dad,” Poppy said again and hung her head in shame. My nemesis safely paying her check, I addressed the issue at hand. I asked my daughter if it was reasonable that this senior citizen expected silence from a place that was located under a freeway and painted like Timothy Leary’s dream home.
“I don’t know,” Poppy moaned, still clinging to the whole “respect your elders” diatribe my father had been feeding her behind my back.
“Listen.” We both lent our ears to the cacophony of clanking silverware, dropped dishes and the cluster of salesmen barking orders into their cell phones behind us. “Was London’s song louder than any of this?”
“I guess not.”
“See. I don’t want you guys to feel ashamed for things that are perfectly normal.”
“Ok.” She released a smile. “Come on Londy,” she called down to her brother who was still cowering on the sticky floor. “You can sit on my side.”
“Now,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “if you want something to feel bad about, we can mix up these syrups. Pass me the boysenberry.”