Like a Kid in a Coffee Shop

It was an unlikely group to grace a coffee shop with its
presence—three generations. Grandparents, parents, a boy of about five and a curly-haired
girl about two years old. Before they even made it into the coffee shop just steps
ahead of me, the little girl was whining and on the verge of pitching a fit. I
mentally rolled my eyes—I was there to work on something with an actual
deadline, having had trouble ignoring housework and laundry at home, and didn’t
want the distraction of a whiney child. Then I told myself not to be that
person. It’s bad enough I don’t like pets—now I’m not a fan of other people’s
kids, too?

So I followed them in and got my simple cup of coffee while
they discussed the menu board. The little girl kept yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!
Juice! Juice! Juice! Juice!” No one acknowledged her demands so she just kept
demanding.

I found a spot and set up my computer, but it’s a small shop
and I was twelve feet at most from their table. The grandparents sat down, then
the kids came to claim a chair—the same chair. The little girl made that pre-verbal
“Nnnnnnnuh!” roar and pushed her brother off. Imperiously she pointed at an
empty chair. He took it without complaint.

Soon Grandma was standing by the girl’s chair, telling her
to sit or kneel so she wouldn’t fall. Eventually the little girl let one knee
hit the seat of the chair for a moment and Grandma went back to her chair. In
minutes they were at it again, and Grandma muttered something about a high
chair. Grandpa said, “Or a strait jacket.” I thought that sounded like a fine
idea.

When the parents joined them there was much fuss about where
everyone would sit, and the little girl decided she would abandon her chair and
sit on her mother’s lap, to whine and cry and yell. Half the time the mother
was trying to keep the child from slithering off her lap, or guard her coffee
from being knocked across the table.

Shall I quit with the blow-by-blow? I think so. It didn’t
get any better. The food was not to her liking, the company not to her liking, apparently
nothing met her standards. Lacking vocabulary, she cried and roared and pounded
and threw.

Dad plowed through his breakfast and ignored the uproar. Mom
placated, wrestled, dodged, distracted, tried everything she could. Except, of
course, discipline.

Once the parents and grandparents bolted their meals, Grandma
stayed behind with Dad to help him clear the incredible wasteland that had once
been a table. Well, I thought she stayed to help. As soon as the mommy was out
the door, Grandma began lecturing the daddy on “that’s the only way she’s going
to learn. And you’re going to have to do it. That’s the only way she’s going to
learn.” I listened desperately to find out Grandma’s secret to containing the
little monster, but missed that part.

I heard what the daddy said, though: “You’re right. You’re
right. You’re right.”

I got the feeling they’d had that conversation before—and would
have it again.