Child-Friendly, or adult-angry?

Child-Friendly Or is that Adult-Angry?

It was fancy, as diners go. And by "fancy" I mean "more expensive than we're used to." But to their credit, they lay out quite a hefty feast for a quiet weekend morning.

The first time Morgan and I stopped in, it was clear the place was one of those "child-friendly" joints we usually make a point of avoiding. The tables were topped with giant sheets of white paper; each table came equipped with a large box of crayons. The brick walls of the diner's interior were covered with those resulting crayon sketches deemed particularly vibrant and lively.

That first morning, the diner was relatively empty. It was well-lit, the waitress was nice and the coffee was strong. Despite the threat, there was, in fact, only one child present. She was, of course, shrieking and throwing her breakfast every which way (in a manner her mother seemed to find "cute"), but we figured we could've just as likely run into a scene like that almost anyplace. Given that this establishment prided itself on its child-friendliness, encountering just one hash-brown-chucking mini banshee was something of a blessing.

Two weeks later on another weekend morning, we stopped in again. This time we arrived a bit later than we had that first time. Although it was once again fairly quiet when we first arrived, it soon became apparent that our timing was a little off. Shortly after our arrival, the tables began to fill quickly, each complete with at least one hyperactive child under the age of five. Most of the families also arrived with strollers in tow, which, more often than not, were left in the aisle for the waitresses to maneuver around.

The child I became most interested in was about three. She arrived at the diner with her doting parents and, I believe, another sibling. The family seated itself?as these things always seem to happen?at the table directly behind me.

The tables in this particular diner are, I should point out, packed very tightly together. It's nearly impossible to push your chair out in order to stand up without bumping the chair behind you. That being the case, when you pull a chair out in order to dance on it for an entire meal, well, this can cause even larger problems.

I couldn't see what was going on behind me?I didn't dare turn around. I tried to make a few inferences from following Morgan's eyes, but the rhythmic kicking at the back of my chair and the regular tiny elbows smacking the back of my head led me to believe there was some dancing afoot. Given how quiet the child was, though, I had to assume she was dancing to the silent calliope music in her brain.

I scooted my chair in as close to the table as I could, and leaned low over my eggs and bacon (and slice of orange?which proves it was a fancy place), hunkered down like a convict in a mess hall.

Although my head was now out of range of the swinging elbows, the back of the chair was still subject to the rhythmic kicks.

I bit my lip. We sort of knew the chance we were taking coming here. And given that we were the only people in the now-overflowing restaurant without a pint-sized monster in tow, there was no doubt in my head who the villain would be if I swung around and clocked her one. I've heard too many stories about people who were sued or arrested after exacting a little payback on the chair-kicking children of strangers.

Morgan had problems of her own on the other side of the table, being seated next to the door that opened onto the small patio out back. The hostess was telling each new family who entered that they might enjoy eating on the patio?which meant the parade through the back door never stopped.

Trying to carry on a conversation was all but fruitless, as it became near-impossible to hear each other over the increasing din of clattering silverware, slamming doors and high-pitched wails. I felt a knot growing in my brain.

"Here," the chair-dancer's father said at last, "why don't you sit down and play with these?"

Thank God, I thought. Maybe he gave her a napkin or a nice, quiet crayon or something.

Well, no he didn't. I heard him shift in his chair and open a bag of some sort. I'm not sure what he gave her exactly. All I know is that there were several of them. They were small, they were plastic, and the object of the game seemed to involve stacking them one atop the other.

After a few seconds of studious effort, the stack (of course) collapsed, most of the pieces clattering to the floor and rolling in every different direction. The girl let out a howl.

Out slid the chair, slamming into my own. The child was down on the floor on her hands and knees, scrabbling about as the waitresses tried to step around her, gathering up the pieces for another try.

Her parents, meanwhile, were each deeply involved in their own sections of the Times. The other child at the table, if there was one, was silent, and possibly dead.

Back up in the chair, she set about to stacking again, only to have the tower collapse within a few seconds. Another howl of defeat. Out slammed the chair, etc.

Why can't you hand her a fucking crayon?

I know I should be more patient with the creatures, but I'm not. More than anything actually, it's the parents who piss me off. Whether doting or oblivious, they're part of the reason why the young people of today and tomorrow are so goddamned hopeless (and I mean hopeless in my eyes, not their own). Maybe it was the father I should be swinging on.

"How's that comin' honey?" he asked without lowering the paper. I shoveled more eggs (over-medium) in between my clenched jaws.

The child sang and danced and set about to stacking some more plastic crap. When the tower collapsed this time, I felt one of the pieces bounce off the floor behind me before ricocheting off the brick wall next to me and striking my foot.

Out slammed the chair into mine once again as the child dove to the floor for the third time.

Without saying anything, without giving the slightest indication, I quietly swung my leg back a few inches until I could feel the game piece with the toe of my shoe.

Instead of crushing it, which was my first inclination, I merely slid the toy forward to the base of the table, then repositioned my foot in order to hold the piece tight in place in such a way that ensured it could neither be seen nor retrieved. Until, of course, I decided it could be. But that wouldn't be for a while.

Satisfied with this, I relaxed, and could once again carry on a normal conversation with Morgan as I finished a second cup of coffee. The child on the floor grew increasingly frantic, but it no longer mattered. I felt the small piece of plastic nestled tight against the side of my foot, and didn't care anymore. I was perfectly calm. Let her scream all she wants. I'll never tell, and she will no longer be able to destroy my fancy breakfast.

At last I heard the father say, "C'mon, honey?we'll find it later. Come back up to the table and eat your pancake."

Yeah, I thought, you do that.