You sit in a booth across from us, and from the double stroller he’s parked on the other side of the Mexico City airport restaurant railing, your husband hands you one toddler, a girl.
Then he hands you another, a boy. There is immediate squirming and wriggling, then containment when your husband sits in the bench opposite you and props his bag next to him to keep a kid corralled. You both try to keep the small ones from scurrying across the table through a former customer’s crumbs until the waiter’s had a chance to clean it off.
The boy toddler fusses. The girl toddler fusses. Somewhere in the seconds between cajoling and consoling, you order your drinks and guacamole and decide to switch kids. Boy toddler is shuttled across the table to Papa while the girl toddler is scooted to Mama. There is momentary happiness until mama excuses herself to grab the diaper bag. It appears Papa might deal with a full-on toddler revolt; the girl toddler squawks mid-voice and constantly: “Mu-mu! Mu-mu! Mu-mu!” until Papa diverts his attention from the squiggly boy in his lap to acknowledge her distress and assure her that Mummy is returning soon and oh look, here she is! And Papa squawks back, “Ma-ma! Ma-ma! Ma-ma!”
You return and balance is restored. One child per parent. The odds seem good.
Then you notice the small boy in the booth next to you. He’s peaked around the edge a couple of times, obviously intrigued by his new kid-neighbors. You see him peaking; you make a funny face at him. He laughs shyly, ducks back, and waits a moment. You are one-arming a toddler, mashing Play-Doh that has magically appeared on your table (how did you do that?), and you’re making small talk with your toddler across from you and the husband wrangling him. One eye is on the neighbor boy and when he peaks around the edge again, you’re waiting for him. Another funny face, more laughter.
Your toddlers are curious about these neighbors and they’re both on your husband’s bench, peaking over to the neighbor boys. There is an exchange of toy airplanes and toy cars, and soon the boys leave their table entirely to stand at the foot of yours. You are the Magic Kingdom.
I see you reach for your white wine while your husband sips his Modelo, and from my perspective five feet away, I think: Ahh, that is the trick to their sanity, and I imagine that the fluid is one of the remaining threads to your adult life before the twins were born.
But as I continue to watch, and you were very interesting, it occurs to me you might be one of those people who genuinely drinks it for the taste because you periodically sip then duck back onto the stage of swirling Playdoh, crashing toy planes and inviting yet another random kid to join what is clearly the most fun table in all the restaurant.
You are genuinely having the time of your life. You have not applied lipstick once and I doubt there’s a handheld mirror anywhere in your vicinity. One of the boys finds a page of star stickers in your bag and begins applying them to your toddler’s foreheads. They all think it’s hilarious. He motions for you. You bend your head down and he dots your forehead with a red star. Your reaction makes me think it’s the grandest gift you’ve ever received.
The star is still there, lopsided from your center, when the parents of the boys step over from their table to leave. Their mother looks down at you and from where you’re seated, you look up – red star and all. They seemingly thank you (I can’t understand), and I’m watching to see if there is a flicker of judgment in your eyes. You have just played with their children for 30 minutes and you’re adorned with a red star of their son’s choosing, and now you’re looking at their mother in her twice-applied lipstick and freshly combed hair, tight white-and-black striped dress that allows for ample cleavage with a horse-shoe-shaped slit in the back.
I’m looking to see if there is any judgment, or if, when they walk away, you share a holier-than-thou eye-roll with your husband.
But you don’t!
You know what you both do?
Your husband smiles at a shy young boy peaking around your edge of the booth from a neighboring table. He says cheerily, “Ola,” you turn back to smile at him, your girl toddler gives him a hug, your heart melts just a bit, and as if on cue to assure everyone that you’re humans, your toddlers promptly have a meltdown over a shared water bottle.
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