Lunch with Lila

The upside to Mike being laid off is that we've been able to have more one-on-one time with the kids. And we spent a Monday, a couple of weeks ago, at the Please Touch Museum in Philadelphia. It was awesome - the kids had a lot of fun.

I have been going into the office every morning from 9-noon, and then I drop Gage at preschool Mon-Wed. This Monday, after dropping Gage off, Lila and I went out to lunch. Just the two of us. I was really looking forward to our lunch date. Lila was excited, too. We went to a small, fancy sandwich shop / caterer not far from our house. For some reason I kind of expected us to chat, not really remembering that Lila is two. Gage can hold real conversations, and Lila is always piping up with her opinions so I guess I thought she was participating in the conversations more than she actually is. Once we were alone I realized that, charmingly, Lila's speech is made up mostly of observations combined with anything major that happened to her recently. She was not interested in the back-and-forth of conversation...she wanted to entertain me.

"Snowflakes!" she cried, pointing. Every couple of feet a sparkly wooden snowflake hung from the ceiling. "Can I reach it?" she grunts as she reaches her arm up as high as it can go. Not coming close, she begins to stand up in her seat.

"No, sweetie, you must sit in your chair. What do you want? Tuna salad? A hamburger?"

She settles back into the seat and, still looking up, says "I will eat snowflakes for lunch." Then she giggles as though she's told a hysterical joke. She reaches up again and pretends to grab a flake, makes a chomping noise like she's eating it.

"You're funny," I smile.

Chomp. There goes another snowflake. Chomp.

"What should we order for lunch? Do you want turkey?"

"I will eat alllll the snowflakes." She's grinning and bouncing in her chair as she reaches up again and again, pretending to pull all the decorations from the ceiling.

The waitress comes over to take our order.

"Milk!" Lila exclaims, as though she's gone days without a drink.

"Lila," I squint at her warningly.

"I mean," she begins again, and switches her voice to quiet, sweet and high-pitched, "May I please have some milk?" This polite voice is like a parody of a polite voice. Too sweet, too girlie, too wheedling. I love it.

"That's much better. Coffee for me." By the IV, if possible. "She will have the chicken soup and a bowl of fruit." I order my own sandwich and the waitress retreats.

"I like that nice lady," Lila says, watching her walk away.

"So, how was your morning?" I ask.

Lila holds up a hand, and I see a small, colorful band-aid wrapped around one of her fingers. "I was jump-jump-jumping on the trampoline," (the kids have a small, indoor trampoline with an attached rail to hold for balance) "And I hit my finger with my tooth and I was crying and crying. I was crying so hard and then I stopped and I didn't turn into a piggy." (Thanks, Alice in Wonderland.)

"Oh my," I say sympathetically. "That sounds like it really hurt."

"Daddy gave me a band-aid."

"I see that."

"I was jump-jump-jumping on the trampoline," Lila begins again.

"Yeah, and you hurt your finger."

"I hit my finger with my tooth." (Wait, didn't we just have this conversation?) "I was crying so hard. But I didn't--"

"Yeah, you didn't turn into a piggy," I'm trying to rush her through the instant replay because the waitress is back with our drinks. Lila says a quiet Thank You as her milk is placed in front of her.

"That lady is nice," Lila says again, and wrinkles her brow in concentration as she opens her straw wrapper.

"What else did you do this morning?"

"Played with Gager." She looks up, and chomps a few more snowflakes. "Here, Mommy," she picks up her milk and passes it to me. I lunge for it - it's full and wobbly in her little hands. "I want to share my milk."

"Oh, thank you. But that's okay. You drink it."

"No, I want to shaaare."

"All right," I take a tiny sip of milk and make an appropriate yummy sound. "You want some coffee?"

"No!" she laughs.

"Good girl."

"I have to poop!"

"Let's go," I take her hand and we start the amazingly long journey to the bathroom. It's like a quarter mile from the table, through many skinny, ill-lighted hallways. Some places have the strangest bathrooms, and you see them all when you have little kids.

No action, but lots of hand-scrubbing later (Lila loves to wash her hands) lands us back at our table.

"Why don't you tell me a story?" I ask.

"Once upon a time," she begins immediately, "There was a pointy tree and it was chasing us! It was chasing the big girl and the mommy and the daddy. They said, 'Oh no!'" She's getting a little loud, and I shush her a bit so we don't make any enemies. "They were running and the big pointy tree was chasing them!"

"Wow, that sounds scary."

"Yeah. And once upon a time there was a big girl and the big girl said 'I hate Baby Josie!' and the big girl went to time out in her bunk bed all day."

My eyes widen. One the one hand I'm surprised, on the other hand not really. "Well, anyone who says they hate someone should go to time out, because that's not a nice thing to say." Lila looks at me, like, I know. Weren't you listening to the story?

Luckily our food arrives, sparing us both from any more stories involving the tiny screamer who replaced Lila as the baby in the family.

Lila enthusiastically spoons up her soup, pleased with the celery 'moons' in each bite. She's content to eat peacefully for several minutes, and so am I. She turns her attention to her fruit and picks up a cube of green melon with her fork.

"What's this?" it's been a long time since we've had summer fruits.

"That's honeydew. Melon."

She gobbles it, spears another piece of fruit. "What's this?"

"That's canteloupe. Melon."

"What's this?"

"Pineapple."

"What's this?"

"A grape. You know what grapes are."

"What's this?"

"Honeydew. Sweetie...." I try to think of a way to change the subject.

"Have some," she pushes the fork toward my mouth.

"I wish I could, but I'm allergic."

"Just have a little," she urges. She puts on the polite, wheedling voice again. "Just have a little, Mommy."

"I can't." No means no, Lila! I'm getting peer pressure from a two-year-old!

"I have to poop!"

Back through the hallways we go, under the flickering, buzzing lights. Past the strange and unwelcoming doorways that must lead to storage rooms. Why does the bathroom have to be so far away?

"You really have to go this time," I tell her, "Because this is the last trip to the potty."

"Okay," she says.

Back at the table I finish my sandwich and Lila finishes her fruit. She's eaten a decent amount of soup. The waitress refills my coffee and packages up the remaining soup for us to take home.

"I like that nice lady," Lila says.

"Yeah, me too." Lila has been eyeing the spinning display of cakes and now the restaurant is mostly empty, save for a handful of older women (who think Lila is "Just adorable! How old are you, sweetie, three?" "Yes," Lila nods. I hide a smile and say "She'll be three in May."). I figure it's safe now to let her look around a little, since the display is in plain view and not far away.

"Lila, you've done a good job of staying in your seat. Would you like to go look at those cakes?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. You may, but you have to come back when I call you."

"Okay!" She trots off, and stares at the cake display while I sip my coffee.

"Mommy," she stage whispers. "Call me back."

"What? Oh, um, Lila, come back please." She trots back to me, then breaks into a run. "Walk," I remind her. You must walk." She immediately slows, taking slow-motion, exaggerated steps.

"Let's go pay," I say, taking my last gulp of coffee. At the register Lila picks up a tin of candy.

"What's this?"

"Mints."

"You like mint! Here you go, Mommy." She slides the tin onto the counter while I'm getting money from my bag.

"Oh, thanks, sweetie, but we're not going to buy these." I put the mints back on the rack and hand the money to the cashier.

"And what's your name?" the cashier asks. Lila, suddenly shy, turns her face into my legs.

"Say, 'My name's Lila,'" I prompt.

"My name's Yi-yah," she whispers.

"Aww, how sweet," the cashier smiles. "You want these mints, too?"

"What? No," I put the mints back again - this kid is slick. I didn't even see her put them up there the second time.

We get our coats on, and we've survived a nice lunch together in peace, repetition and observation. I love this kid.



We had a great time, and it was truly lovely to get out with just Li. I'm going to do a solo-Gage trip sometime this week, and then Mike will do solo trips with them next week.

Last night I said, "Tell Grandma who you went to lunch with yesterday," and I had to laugh at Lila's memory of it.

"Baby Josie!" Lila cried.

"No, remember...it was just Lila and...."

"Daddy! And Mommy! And Gage! And Baby Josie!"

"Left quite an impression on her, our alone time," I joked to my mom.

But I'll remember it well. Me and my girl.