Balancing Act

I took both girls to visit my elderly friend at a restaurant the other day. It was her first time meeting Hannah, and my first time taking the two girls out to eat on my own. The baby slept through lunch, and Emmie kept herself busy coloring on the kids menu, so I was able to catch up and have an actual conversation with my friend. I was feeling pretty successful.

Right as the waitress was setting down our ice creams, the baby opened her eyes, looking around at the strange environment.

My friend leaned in closer to the baby. "Hello, there," she cooed.

Immediately Hannah's face crumpled, turned red, and she started to cry.

"Oh, it's okay," I said to both my friend and my baby. "She's probably just confused. It's okay. Hannah, say hi, honey." I pulled Hannah out of her car seat and bounced her on one knee while I tried to spoon my ice cream into my mouth with the other hand.

The baby was still fussy, so I took her to the restroom, changed her diaper, and nursed her a little while standing up in the handicap stall. I wanted to calm her down, but didn't want to feed her a full meal near a toilet. She wasn't satisfied, and it made her even more upset.

When we came back, Emmie and my friend had finished their ice cream. Mine had half-turned to liquid in its tulip dish. "Emmie, it's time to go," I insisted over the baby's cries. I started buckling the baby into her car seat as she squirmed.

"I'm tired," Emmie said, throwing herself face down on the booth. Our pile of coats slid to the floor.

"Emmie, it's time to go," I repeated, fake smile plastered on my face, which Emmie knows means, "You're going to be in big trouble later if you don't listen to me."

I had the handle of the car seat in the crook of my arm, and I was doing awkward squat-like moves in an attempt to rock the baby. Draped over my opposite shoulder was my overloaded purse and packed diaper bag. I tried to reach down for the coats and the gift bag my friend had brought, while trying to catch Emmie's hand, but stuff started falling out of my purse. Sweat droplets slid down my forehead. "Come on, Emmie. Get your coat on."

"I can't; I need help." Emmie can totally get her coat on herself, except for when she is being lazy.

"Waaah! Waaah!"

"Emmie, please pick up the coats and get yours on." My voice came out high-pitched and tense, my fake-smile shaky.

My friend, who is becoming increasingly fragile as the years pass, bent down and grabbed the things from the floor. She handed me my coat, and started bundling Emmie into hers.

"Waaah, waaah!"

"Thank you, sorry," I mumbled. I didn't bother trying to get my coat on. I grabbed the container of Emmie's leftovers and steered Emmie towards the front of the restaurant. From shoulder to hand, there wasn't a free inch of either of my arms. I wasn't a person, I was a pack mule.

"Waaah!"

One of my bags banged against a table on our way out. An elderly couple was seated there, and they smiled at me. "Enjoy it," the lady said.

"Ha, ha, totally," I laughed, in on the joke. Emmie tugged at my hand while up front my friend paid the check.

The lady's smile faded. She turned to gaze at my wailing baby and my stubborn preschooler. "I mean it."

And right then, I saw my life through her eyes. I saw that these frantic moments will pass. Some day my babies won't be babies anymore. Some day I could be sitting in a cafe in the early afternoon with nothing to interrupt or rush me. Some day, I will be wishing I could have these days back again.

"I will," I said, and allowed my daughter to pull me away.