I want dahshik skeem! = I want chocolate ice cream!
We snagged one of the green outdoor tables and watched the shoppers load their trunks, the families stroll by, the birdies foraging for all-American empty calorie snack crumbs. We lingered in the warm evening air, enjoying the girls' happiness and summoning the patience to overlook that The Kiddies, They Are Not Fast Eaters.
The girls with their drippy dairymelt faces, they're still little enough that anyone who likes little kids automatically thinks that they're Cute. So a dozen times or more, someone stopped to wave or say hi or in some other way engage them. And yet, we managed to shock or startle or perhaps even horrify admirer after admirer.
As one woman was trying to compliment E on her outfit, she introduced a brand-new topic of conversation: But Mama, HOW do you get a baby out of your buh-gina?
One little girl pulling her mom by the hand tried to stop to say hi to L just as L stood up and accidentally poured melted ice cream out of her bowl and all down her entire body until it pooled in her shoes and puddled on the sidewalk. The mom looked at me with sympathy and said, "I'm glad right now that she's not mine." I could only see L from the back so I asked the lovely husband how bad the mess was. He answered just as an elderly man walked by, smiling at us - until he looked awkwardly away instead as he heard M answer, "well, she's peeing ice cream all over herself right now."
M began to clean up as both girls had lost interest in their desserts, or so we thought. He tossed their cups into the nearby garbage can and L flipped out. I want my skeem! Daddy! I want my skeem! And then she tried to climb up and in to the garbage can, utilizing the same technique she employs when flipping herself into her crib each night. Nobody tried to say hi to us anymore as M had to peel a sticky, sugar-fueled wiggleworm off the the garbage can.
All good things must come to an end. It was time to go home.