The Table Dance
My drum is a dead horse. I beat upon it slowly, minding the chaotic footprints that fall beneath the march of my little drummer boy. The only form to his step is free.
You see, once again I have reason to believe that Thing 2, being all of fifteen and a half months, is officially insane. Inzane, as I have come to call him.
The boy must have been watching the sweetness that is his older brother from his secret lair, aka, the womb, and planning how he would usurp the peace that was our home. He has succeeded. His laugh is maniacal.
This isn't to say that Zane is not sweet in his own right. He is. He is loving and funny. Damn funny. He does not, however, respect the tranquility that we once knew. He wants to punch tranquility in the mouth. Tolstoy tangoed peace with war. Our boy doesn't dance with peace, instead he runs across it, yelling with a reckless fever that would make a warrior blush. The Huns would cower beneath his gaze.
This passion for anarchy is deeper than his tastes in vintage Sex Pistols propaganda, it is the taint of the stage, should a table be considered as such, and the lure of the crowd, that push him onward and into ecstasy.
In short, we can't take the kid anywhere.
His table manners are beyond non-existent. He no more cares that you are trying to enjoy a casual dinner in the booth next to us than he does about the state of the potatoes he has smeared from the floor to my fingers. These things are beneath him, and you, in the next booth, your fun is over.
He makes my pockets all the lighter for the extra tips that I must leave to cover the mid-shift closing of entire restaurant sections due to hazardous spills, the practicing of barks and yodels and the obviously too loud cursing of a frustrated father.
The boy is havoc in a diaper, and he is loving every minute of it.
It does look pretty fun.