This story has a happy ending. Sort of.
On Saturday, Jamie, M_, and I decided to brave the oppressive, stifling heat and motor down to our neighborhood cafe/bookstore for a light supper in the early evening. And let me begin my tale by saying to every childless person who reads this: pity the parents you see out with a toddler, baby, or preschooler who chooses to lose their freakin shit out at a restaurant. No, those parents did not know that this was going to happen, and no, they aren't purposefully trying to spoil your relaxing and drama-free dining experience. They are mortified, and just as annoyed as you are (if not more so), so rather than shoot firey deathrays from your eyes at them as they attempt to restrain their whining, screeching, flailing child, why not employ some simple human empathy and kindly avert your gaze from the horrifying spectacle unfolding before you? Is that really so much to ask? Huh?
So you see where this is going.
Within moments of arriving at the cafe, M_ spilled three-quarters of a full 8 ounce glass of apple juice on her shoes. That, my friends, was a warning shot. But, feeling lucky or stupidly optimistic, we decided to clean her up and move on to the fresh hell of Round 2: Solid Foods. Presented with her meal, M_ did everything but actually consume any of it. She waved her peanut butter and jelly sandwich around her head threateningly, like a cocked pistol. She smeared wads of peanut butter and gobs of jelly onto the table. She gyrated in her chair as though in full seizure, refusing to be still for even the most fleeting of moments. And the whining, OH THE WHINING. Jamie and I took turns shoveling food in our mouths while one of us manned the Tilt-o-Whirl molded into the shape of our daughter, alternately growling behavioral corrections and pleading with her to PLEASE STOP THE INSANITY. After about 10 minutes of this, Jamie lifted M_ out of her chair, looked me in the eye, and said in his best I'M CALM, DAMMIT! voice: “We're leaving. I'll meet you out front.”
Good times.
So I gathered our things, muttered some vague apologies to the cafe owner, and scurried out the front door, to-go cup of iced coffee in hand.
Sometimes, when bad things happen, it seems that space-time perceptibly alters: the environment becomes visibly heightened and ultra-vivid somehow, with each moment excruciatingly prolonged, each movement in slow-motion. And then there are times when badness descends like an anvil: so swiftly that it is experienced only as a shapeless blur of an instant, as when you gracelessly tumble down a full flight of concrete stairs outside your neighborhood cafe, landing with a tremendous smack on top of the splattered remains of your to-go cup of iced coffee.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
For the brave of heart and strong of stomach, the damage (after the jump):
![[shakes fist at]](http://static.flickr.com/77/223806681_b263d7543a_m.jpg)
