P
arker is ten months old and is in full “rambunctious kitten” phase. He is not evil or malicious but he has way too much energy and if he is bored or unsupervised he goes looking for trouble and usually finds it. We call him “The Monster.”
Noah reminded me a lot of Parker. I first saw Noah in the gate area at the airport running around like a wild thing, totally unsupervised. He was maybe five years old with bright sparkling eyes and a mane of wild hair. His parents were nowhere to be seen; I discovered subsequently they were in the bar.
Noah was on my flight and he spent a good part of the flight running up and down the aisles. The flight attendant told Noah’s mother to control her son and the mother said, “Don’t tell me how to raise my child.”
Noah kept running and it got so bad that the pilot actually came out and told Noah’s father he needed to control his son.
“I don’t appreciate being told how to raise my son,” said the father just as Noah bumped into an elderly gentleman resturning from the restroom.
“Noah!” said the father sternly and a look of pure terror crossed Noah’s face but he sat down and was quiet — for a while.
The next morning I was at the hotel’s breakfast buffet and, wonder of wonders, there was Noah running through the breakfast area. Noah’s parents were in the back of the restaurant, clearly hungover and in no mood to deal with an energetic five year old.
The breakfast buffet had a nice selection of baked goods and at the very end, next to a stack of dinner plates, was a three-tier display of Danish pastries. Noah unceremoniously cut the line, grabbed a dinner plate and headed for the pastries. At first glance all the pastries looked identical but I subsequently discovered that the pastry at the very top was marginally larger than the others on the display: That was the one Noah wanted.
The problem was the Danish was slightly out of his reach so he stood on his tiptoes, reached way up for the Danish, and lost his balance, falling to the floor and bringing the stack of dinner plates down with him with a deafening crash.
Noah, on the floor surrounded by broken china, was scared witless. He looked back towards his parents table, but they were clearly ignoring the noise; there is no way they could have not heard it. In the meantime, all the adults in the line were just staring at the poor kid.
Noah gulped and was clearly willing himself not to cry. Uncertain, he stood up and began picking up the broken china while everyone in line still just stared at him.
I couldn’t stand it. “Don’t do that, Buddy,” I said. “You’ll cut yourself. Someone will clean that up.” Noah nodded. “I know it was an accident,” I continued and as relief flooded his face I grabbed a plate, took down the Danish he wanted and handed it to him. He gave me a smile of pure gratitude and ran to join his parents.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the restaurant manager. “You need to control your son,” he said.
“Don’t tell me how to raise my kid,” I told him, not wanting to get Noah in trouble, and pleased that I had the last word.
Later, when I checked out I thought the hotel bill seemed awfully high; that’s when I discovered a charge for $219 labeled: “Damage, misc restaurant.”