What's on the Breast Feeding Menu?

I am eating rotisserie chicken and hummus for dinner at a casual Mediterranean restaurant. The decor is brightened with vibrant colors I'd never think to combine - lime green, bright red, orange and deep brown. I realize how boring my home's walls are and look away from the canvas to the people around me.

The tables lining the restaurant's perimeter are a bit closer together than most would find comfortable, but after a short time most diners are lost in conversation anyway. This, as you might suspect, delights me.

Tonight, I'm eating alone and free to listen undisturbed by my companions. What an anti-socialist I am, I think to myself. Three quarters through my one-quarter white meat chicken, a family of four takes a table near the center of the room. Mom, Dad, toddler and baby settle in. I polish off the crispy wing of my bird and again look over at the family. In those few minutes past, the mom has deftly set up to breast feed her infant. She wears a nifty cover that wraps around her neck and tucks around the outside of baby's head and side. Only two little feet poke out the other end of the cloth.

The baby fusses a bit and a few high-pitched screams grab the attention of two little girls dining next to me with a young woman who is pregnant. The children are around five or six years old and sit next to each other, on my side of the bench, opposite of their guardian. One is frozen, chicken leg in hand, looking toward the screaming baby:

Girl 1: Mom! Why's the baby screaming?

Mom: He's probably hungry, sweetie. He has to eat, just like you need to eat your chicken.

Girl 2: He is loud!

Mom: Yeah, babies can be really loud, huh?

Girl 1: Why is he all covered up like that if he's hungry?

Mom looks back at the other mother and baby.

Mom: Well, um, his Mom is feeding him and she needs privacy.

Girl 1: How can she feed him if he's all covered up?

Girl 2: He's eating from her boobie. My brother ate from my mom's boobie, too. I saw it lots of times.

Girl 1 is silent and looks at her mother.

Mom: Honey, mommies' bodies make milk when they have babies and then the babies drink the milk from our breasts, like our kitties did with Snowy, remember?

Girl 1: Are you making milk for our baby?

Mom: Yes! And when I feed her I'll show you.

After some thought, the daughter makes a recommendation to her mom. "You should make chocolate milk. She will like it so much better than plain," she says.

The Pea Questions the Pod

I am enjoying an afternoon off work by baking at the community pool. A handful of children splashing in the water remind me of summer's carefree days outside my cubicle walls. Cries for moms to watch this and that ring out repeatedly. Accomplishments include jumps into the deep and submersions without holding noses.

A pair of young girls play with water noodles near the pool steps. They are perhaps four. Both wear bikinis, one in light pink with ruffles on her bum and the other in bold orange with white bows on top and bottom. They try to sit on their noodles, which keep sliding out from under them. "Mommy!" one says to the woman sitting on the pool edge in front of my chair, "Help me!".

The woman steadies the noodles and both girls quickly straddle the bright green tubes. They shriek and laugh, then suddenly one is quiet. I look where she is looking. Three young women are walking toward pool chairs with their bags and towels. All three wear bikinis. One is about eight months pregnant.

The little girl stares open-mouthed at the woman's protruding bare belly, which commands even more attention with three colorful butterflies tattooed across it. The other child now sees what has captured her friend's attention and points while drawing in her breath. Her mother gently pulls her arm down:

Ruffles: Mommy! Look at her tummy!
Bows: Yeah! Look!
Mom: Yes, I see. Don't be scared. It's okay. Her baby's in there. Growing until it's time to come out.
Ruffles: When will she come out?
Mom: Probably soon, she'll be ready.
Ruffles: Before we go home?
Mom: No! Not that soon. It will be a lot more days from now.
Bows: Who put the baby in there?
Mom: Um, well, the daddy.
Bows: Why didn't he put it in his own tummy?
Mom: Ha! You know honey, that's a very good question. Why don't you ask your daddy when you get home.

Water Torture

Today I am recharging my batteries with a day off work at the beach. My bare feet touch the sand and I inhale deeply. It is the perfect kind of warm today, hot enough to claim summer and cool enough to bake all day in the sun. I walk forward until my feet just stop. This is always how I find my spot.

I am not looking for interesting people to observe or hoping to overhear anything at all. Today I visit the sea to flush two weeks of anxiety away. My Dad came home from the cardiac unit on Monday and is finally healing. I allow myself cautious joy.

I drop my stuff and set about arranging everything just so. My favorite "Havana's Bananas" towel is a welcome site, indeed. I sit cross-legged on it under the brilliant sky and breathe. Looking at the vast ocean always shrinks my troubles. "Amen", I say, without prayer.

I lay back, close my eyes and begin absorbing vitamin D. I love the sounds and smells of the beach and I leave my iPod ear buds off for now. I hear gulls, waves, radio stations and chip bags ripping open. Laughing, coughing, scolding, more laughing. And then, shrill and breathless:

"Mommy! Mommy! Daddy pooped in the water!"

A young boy bounds up the sand dunes to his mother, dripping wet and panting. He is five or six, brown haired and fair skinned. His tummy pudges just a bit. He holds it with both hands and catches his breath:

"Haha-ha! Mom! I saw the poopy! It floated."

His mother sits straight up and removes her sunglasses. "What?" she says. Three teen girls giggle in front of me. The woman looks at them, me and back to her son, who laughs louder:

Son: Dad pooped in the ocean! Haha!

Mom: Shhh! Stop fibbing.

Son: I'm not!

Mom: Shhh!

Dad jogs up and his son howls with laughter. His wife says something to him. The man shakes his head back and forth. The boy continues laughing. His father grabs his head and chin from behind, temporarily silencing the outburst. "No!" I hear, out of context from the man. As he further turns away from me, I see the back waistband of his swim trunks are doubled over on one side.

All Up in Her Business

A mundane trip to the grocery store finds me deciding whether my cats would like grilled chicken and liver or shredded beef for dinner. I go with the beef; chicken AND liver is even too much for me to imagine. I check out the people ahead of me in the express lane, counting items to see who has more than 10. No violators this time.

My turn to put items on the conveyor belt. Wet streaks slide by and under the metal end. A piece of lettuce bumps along the corner nearest the cash register. The cashier doesn't notice. He banters with the female bagger. Both are black; he is perhaps 50 with a gray-rimmed short afro, round prescription glasses and nails a little too long. He smiles and reveals one gold bicuspid. She is early 20s with smooth skin and beautiful make-up, light pink lipstick and a wide, sparkly smile. She wears dark burgundy braids.

The cashier doesn't look at me as he scans my items. He glances down, picks up a can and turns right back to her, busy with conversation. She responds but looks up or away as she speaks to him. After my last can, he states my total and says to her:

Him: Hey, you need a ride home, girl?

Her: Why do you say that?

Him: Uh, well, I heard you had a car accident today.

Her: (looks directly at him) Why you all up in my bizzznes?

Him: Huh?

Her: Why are you concerning yourself with my business?

Him: Okay. I'm sorry. Walk home, then.

Her: My boyfriend is picking me up, thank you very much.

She bends down to restock the bags. He gazes at her backside. My hand is still extended with payment. Only when I let a quarter fall to the counter does he snap back to present and finish my check-out.

Piercing Pain

Warning: This Post is Rated "R"

I trudge to the mall to buy a gift card for a friend's teen daughter from her favorite clothing store called "Forever 21". Funny, I still feel like I'm in my 20s (I am not), so the store's name sits right with me. Browsing the clothes, I'm struck by how incredibly small everything is; the skirts are maybe one foot long, the jeans about the width of my arm, the tops fall off hangers at the slightest nudge. Their stringy straps don't hold. It's official. I no longer dwell in the blissful decade of carefree styles and fashion magazines. I'm all grown up.

Young girls' chatter brings me back from my reverie. Two teenagers pour themselves into a selection of doll-sized furry jackets the next rack over. Black, pink, baby blue and white jackets form a tight ring and the girls try on each color. They look high school age, with bright eyes and easy smiles. They are white, one blond and one brunette. They each wear jeans. One sports a white and pink "Roxy" surf top. The other wears a red t-shirt with lips outlined in silver rhinestones. Their own lips are heavily glossed. One has glitter spray in her hair. They model their choices in front of a mirror, the puffy jackets rack separating us. I bury my nose in a rack of brightly colored ponchos, my back towards them. After a few seconds of fashion talk:

Girl 1: Oh my god! I saw Jenny's sister's nipple ring!

Girl 2: No way!

Girl 1: Serious. I totally did! She showed it to me and I'm like -

Girl 2: NO WAY! Was it gross? What did it look like?

Girl 1: It was soooo cool. So cool. It's silver with two ball thingies on the bottom.

Girl 2: Ew! I am never doing that. I mean, in your boob?

Girl 1: It's so hot! You have to be totally brave to do it. She said it hurt like FTF.

Girl 2: Like what?

Girl 1: FTF.

(silence)

Girl 1: You know, F-T-F?

Girl 2: What's that?

Girl 1: Oh my god! You don't know what FTF is? Haha! You really don't know? First time fuck! Guess I know what you are.

True Love

I hear two male voices laughing at the Xerox machine just outside my office today, a wonderful configuration for listening. People talk louder when it's copying and it's easy to hear. I don't recognize either voice. One is wheezing more than laughing. They are joined by a third male:

Voice 3: What's the joke? Huh? Give it up.

Wheeze: Oh...frick man! Oh...you sick bastard!

Voice 2: Beautiful! It was beautiful execution. I ripped one in the elevator with my rook. I told him inhale it and love it!

Wheeze: Ahhhh! (wheeeze) and then this gal gets in on the second floor and she looks around and you can just see...

Voice 2: Yeah, it was beautiful timing! I rolled my eyes at her and looked at my rook. She looks at him and he is just staring straight ahead, man. He is dy-ing!

Wheeze: Oh yeah, the best 'vator sting yet. You sick bast!

Voice 3: You think that's great? I'll tell you what. My girlfriend loves to crack one off! Ha! Can you believe it? She thinks it's funny! Ain't no other, man. I got the last one. That's true love, a girl like that.

The Xerox stops. A few coughs and sputtered laughs, then they are gone. Nothing remains, but I take my Fabreeze air freshener and spray it anyway.

Magic Mirror

I'm in a dressing room when two young female voices enter. They chatter back and forth, excited. Hangers clank on metal rods. Girlish laughter. The two crowd into one stall next to me. Zippers unzip, shoes are flung off. A cell phone rings, playing "Party Like a Rockstar" by Shop Boyz. The call's ignored.

Girl 1: I totally need jeans. So bad.

Girl 2: Me too, but I'm only getting shorts today. And my gloss.

Girl 1: Oh my god that makes me think of that song, 'my lip gloss is poppin', my lip gloss is cool!'

Girl 2: My lip gloss is gonna make me pop! Make Ryan pop!

Girl 1: This is soooo cute, but I don't wanna get any tube tops until I get my boobs. I cannot wait until the 28th!

Girl 2: I know. You are so lucky. Your parents are so cool. You're gonna look so hot for senior year!

I have to see these girls. I am long finished but wait in my stall until I hear their curtain slide open. They look just like I did at 17.