A South End Buttery Sunday
I could hear the little girls before I saw them.
It was one of those perfect Sunday mornings in September. The weather being in that sweet spot of mild afternoons and cool-enough-for-a-blanket nights. I knew the days for outdoor seating were numbered and decided to take advantage of the café’s patio section. The rest of the neighborhood was just starting to find its way into the morning. A couple passed by walking their dog. A few people drifted in and out of the café for to-go items. A jogger skirted past the tables and chairs. Quiet, solitude, tranquility—my personal trifecta.
Three women came up the block. They were accompanied by three little girls. Each girl wore pink tights, gauzy pink skirts, and pastel-colored hoodies. Curly pink and white ribbons held fast to shiny plaits of long, glossy braids. One of the moms was also pushing a stroller with an infant. Ballerinas! Dancers are a special kind of alpha of the toddler world. They love wearing costumes, doing things in formation, and marveling at themselves in a 20-foot long mirror. These kids are the future regime leaders of tomorrow.
From where I sat I heard the girls:
Mommie!Mommie!I’mgettingthatsnotshesMommie!Mommie!lookitcanwegettachocolateIwanttametooMommie!Haleysaysshesgettinga---
And the Moms adding:
StartingschoolyesofcoursebabyItoldStevethatIwasnotgoingtowhathoneyohIknowlookatthepuppyc’monstaywithmommieschedulesaresocrazyrightyeahIknowbabyputthatdownyuckydirty---
Some of this was punctuated by the women texting and scrolling. I could not have looked away even if I wanted to. They visually dominated the scene with their amalgamation of limbs and wheels and designer shoulder bags seemingly enmeshed like a crow’s cache of treasures. Also, there was no escaping the polyphony emitting from the group in a range of pitches and dynamics. What I found most inspired was their ability to move en masse up the steps and into the café as a pastel machine-like organism ripped from the pages of an H.G. Wells story.
A young couple, probably in their early-thirties, came along and sat at the table near mine. They brought up the menu on their phones, put together an order, and the man went inside. He came back a few minutes later carrying a stanchion with a number on it.
“They’ll bring it out,” he said. “I couldn’t wait in there.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Too loud,” he shook his head.
The door opened. Two of the ballet moms exited with their daughters. I thought this gave the moment a brief Thunderdome quality: six enter, but only four leave! They were all still speaking and based on what the young guy had said, I doubted they had stopped at all.
“I don’t WANT this!” one of the girls said. She thrust out her hand, which held a muffin. “I want a BLUBERRY ONE!” Buyer’s remorse, sure. But I had no sympathy. I have been behind toddlers in line at cafes or casual eateries. When it comes to making their selection, they are handled with the same conscientiousness and focus reserved for monarchy and Oscar winners.
Which doughnut would you like? They have strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla frosted with sprinkles. The chocolate looks like it has more frosting; do you want that one? The strawberry is more like a cake, I think. That sounds good, doesn’t it? Do you like that? No, you don’t have to share with your sister. She’s going to get her own doughnut. Remember you had the vanilla kind at Devvon’s birthday party last month? Do you remember that? Would you like that one? Or the chocolate one looks good, too. Whatever you want.
After the child chooses, the adult is required by law to ask “Are you sure?” at least six times. This is in service of the greater good. Hell hath no fury like a toddler unhappy with the thing they just spent the last eight minutes begging for.
The girl’s complaint disappeared into the mom’s cross-talk.
Undeterred, she repeated “I WANT A BLUEBERRY!” holding the offensive pastry further away from her as if it were dipped in phlegm and covered in cat hair. The door opened and the mom with the stroller emerged. She lowered it down to the sidewalk and just as she did, her ballerina gripped the edge and stuck her head and shoulders all the way in, chattering something at her infant brother or sister. The stroller tipped slightly. Mom registered this shift and gave it a slight jerk and twist, shaking her daughter loose like a piece of crust that had been dropped onto a blanket.
“I want a chocolate CHIP! I want a CHOCOLATE chip! I want a CHOCOLATE CHIP!” she sang, still holding on and bouncing on one edge of the stroller. Blueberry’s mom was on her phone, but she said something to Stroller mom who went back inside. She reappeared rather quickly carrying a chocolate chip cookie the size of a manhole cover and a blueberry muffin. I pictured one of the women behind the counter having a pastry go bag at the ready. I wouldn’t be surprised if a version of this situation played out every Sunday.
The girl took her cookie, unfolded the tissue, gave it a tiny, delicate nibble and said, “Let’s go home, Mommie!” Evidently the leader had spoken. With that, the group disbanded. Two of the moms continued walking up the block past the café; stroller mom and her daughter turned around and headed left down the cross street.
Quiet returned. I could practically see the traces of their pure kinetic energy dispersed behind them like contrails. I felt like I needed a nap. Still, I admired those women. It takes a certain kind of skill to be both in and above the maelstrom, something that only parents and road managers for heavy metal bands share. All that need and dependence is not for the squeamish. I knew at a young age that I couldn’t hack it and I didn’t want to try.
The young couple next to me had also been watching the chaotic street circus. They shared a smile as if to say, “That will never be us, babe.” And I thought, “Are you sure?”
Lens Zen!
It is currently all about the light these days. I am scooping up every inch that falls. This might also have to do with finishing up HBO’s True Detective: Night Country, which takes place in Alaska during its polar night: months of 24-hour darkness. This alone would have made for a terrifying series without the murdery-creepy-supernatural plot elements. I’ve had to rewatch season one of White Lotus set in Hawaii just to off-set Night Country’s visual trauma.
I can see this as a entry in a anthropologists notebook , taken while observing the pink gauze species in the wild.
Love. Parents of smalls= road manager for heavy metal band-- at least those guys are good eaters, and you know when you're gonna get the yelling...Of course, I wanted you to keep going...xoxo