Soft irony

There is soft piped music in the food court of the mall. The place is buzzing with activity; workers on their dinner breaks, shoppers relaxing, their purchases in slick bags with handles and bouche names like Gucci, Boss, and Klein. 

I'm watching a couple with two small girls across from me at a table pushed against a wall. They're young; both the parents and the girls. The youngest child is not quite two, the top of her diaper peeking out of her pants at the waist. The other child is a toddler, old enough to hold a slice of pizza but young enough to want to eat it under two chairs she's pushed together at a bar top behind her parents' table.

They're weary, the couple. The youngest child is not happy. Earlier, while mother and toddler were off purchasing the food, she refused to sit and struggled in her father's arms when he corraled her, tiny whines slowly growing in volume until he set her back on her feet and off she went. He carries a backpack full, I'm sure, of the items parents need--diapers, wipes, changes of clothing, snacks. Two sippy cups are tucked neatly into pouches on either side of the bag, and he removes them in hopes the child will want liquid. She doesn't. She wants to roam freely, preferably away from her parents and her sister.

Hopes for a sit-down dinner lasted five minutes before the eldest left to build her eating area, and to pacify the youngest, mother has plopped the child into a chair across from me. They are cushioned, rattan chairs, four of them gathered around a white coffee table. I suppose for people like myself who need a place to sit for some reason or another. I am waiting for my youngest daughter, whose earlier cryptic text has brought me here after my writers' group. I have time to kill before she gets off work.

The parents want the girls to eat. Dad tries to tempt the older one with a slice of pizza, kneeling at her level, hand reaching between the two chairs, and he smiles in relief when she bites. Mother has a piece of pizza at the end of a fork. She approaches the youngest, Nora, I've learned is her name, with trepidation. Nora is happily sitting in the chair, babbling to herself and studying me and her surroundings. She isn't interested in the fork full of doughy cheesy goodness offered by mother who waves the fork and speaks in a sing-song baby voice to convince Nora that pizza is oh, so fantastic. The child shoves away mother's hand, shaking her head and letting it be known she's not buying that crap. Sister arrives to force the issue, her method cooing and shoving her head into her sister's belly. 

Of course, her way has the opposite effect. Nora erupts, squawking loudly, banging her feet against the cushion. Sister is directed back to her fort.

The parents' food is cold. They've given up, crushing the uneaten food in wrappers to be tossed in a nearby trash can. I recognize the familiar dark circles under their eyes, the wary look in their eyes, and I want to enfold them in my arms, pat their backs, and whisper, "There, there."

I want them to see these two as I do--happy tykes with a healthy dose of curiosity. Who cares if they aren't eating? They'll be fine for some time. Laugh and enjoy these moments, I want to say as others used to tell me. Even in this blip of craziness that has caused them to second guess their reasoning for mall shopping with their girls, I want to say--don't sweat these antics.

In a blink of an eye, they will be grown, off on their own adventures, and you will be me sitting in a chair at the mall worrying about why the youngest needs her mother. 

Oh, how I long for those days, and yes, I remember being stressed and unhinged as these parents are now.

Nora has moved. She's retrieved her sister's cup with the straw and removed the lid. Her little hand reaches inside and swirls. She removes it, dripping with liquid, to swipe it over the cushion on the chair next to me. She's so happy, talking aloud, reaching in for more liquid to swipe across the chair in circular motions. 

"Ceaning!" she shrieks when her mother notices, horrified, her brain already flipping through its files. Do I have something to clean this? I need napkins. Where are they? Is it easier to get those or to get wipes out of the backpack? Mother opts for the napkins, scolding Nora for making more of a mess.

Oh, lady, I think the messes have only just begun, and the weariness won't fade, but it will change over time, and the messes will be bigger than water on a chair. 

Parenthood never ends. 

But I don't say this aloud. Instead, I smile at Nora as she uses the napkins to clean up her own mess, thinking of how my youngest would've had her pacifier in her mouth while she worked, Molly held tightly against her chest, feet dangling at her side. 

I'm content to watch and write about these strangers, half of me excited to see my daughter, the other half full of apprehension. A mother's intuition, I suppose. I've had the feeling for a couple of days now.

The chair is clean to the mother's satisfaction, but not Nora's. They struggle over that, and the wet napkins breaking apart as her mother tries to remove them from tiny clenched fists. 

Father has gathered up the backpack and the toddler and hands the latter over so that he can take charge of Nora, hefting her high into his arms even as she protests. 

Off they go--mother with her shoulders sagging against the weight and embarrassment of a shrieking child, and father struggling once again with Nora in tantrum mode.

In the blink of my eye, they round the corner and disappear. 

A tap hits my shoulder. 

My own daughter has arrived.