Yesterday, I met my friend, Debbie for a quick coffee date on the Square. I finally got to see her so-adorable-he’s-edible new baby (they’re the ones w/the breastfeeding struggles who are now happily trucking along, 3.5 months later). That alone was worth the trip.

The trouble was, moments before they arrived, Aaron urped his banana, pumpkin and whole milk breakfast aaaaaaaaaaall over the front of his little fuzzy blue fleece sweatsuit, so fuzzy wuzzy and cutesy wootsy with oodles of nooks and crannies for holding extra amounts of urp. At neartly 17 months, he’s well past the “not-so-bad-smelling spit-up” stage, and, having caught much of his re-gifted breakfast in my hands, I rushed around, grabbing paper towels, wiping him down, hoping for the best. I left the kids alone at the table (something I never do) to quickly wash my hands and get more paper towels.

My friend arrived and we oohed and aahed over the new baby and I even got a couple of little crooked smiles out of him. Nolan was really sweet to him, too, which was touching. Until he passive-aggressively covered Baby’s face with three Boobah toys. Aaron and I had finally reached some semblance of cleaned up, and I sat down to chat with Debbie. And Aaron immediately started crying. Not just fussing, but wailing in that ‘Billy-Corgan-constipated-baby’ throaty growl kind of cry. Of course the shop is filled with old ladies who glance at us sideways, hoping my rotten kid will shut up soon.

I’m not one of those parents who lets her kids do whatever they please, decorum and the feelings of others be damned. But I did NOT want to hold Aaron; he stank. I vainly hoped he’d be content sitting there in the high chair while I got to visit with a fellow member of the adult species. When it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t giving in, I unclicked him from the high chair and held him, kind of at arm’s length at first, but finally relenting and drawing his stinky self close to my body. This measure of maternal comfort brought the predictable result of even louder screaming. I looked down to see Nolan had removed both his shoes and socks, neither of which he can put back on himself, and was dancing around the tables on the tile floor.

I did what I always do in these situations and immediately began sweating like Richard Nixon. I was suddenly hyper-aware of a room filled with old bitties giving me the stink-eye. Apologizing to my friend, I hauled my rank, cranky kid out to the car, pulling his coat over him, and strapped him into the car seat. I ran back inside to recover Nolan’s shoes and socks. Of course I had no stroller and we’d brought like 50 things in with us, so I gathered those up in a huge smelly clump (Aaron apparently nailed the blanket too) and dragged Nolan out the door.

Those two have hit the age where meeting in public anywhere except a park where they can barf and run free like the feral little creatures they are is simply useless. My friend has two kids and, thankfully, understood, saying she was glad she wasn’t the only one who has days like this. And we shall both take comfort in knowing that we’ve albums full of embarrassing baby and toddler pictures with which to torture them in front of friends and prom dates 15 years hence.