Distractions

I parked myself on this rainy miserable day in Manhattan in the children's section of a public library. Perfect place to work on my paper on childhood weight loss. I am sitting at a large round school-red table in a ridiculously small chair. I'm just finished doing all the requisite warmup activities before I plunge into this book on preventing and treating mental health disorders in children and adolescents. Have jogged my brain and typing fingers over a few emails, facebook profiles, and a disheartening article on Bernie Madoff and my beloved institution of learning. Now I am ready to get down to business. A woman with a stroller and a little boy, probably 4 years old, has just taken the table next to mine.
"I want snack," the boy is saying, "I want snack."

I'm one who works better in noisey areas than deadly quiet ones, so this doesn't phase me. I'm back to Binge Eating Disorder and BMIs.

"I want snack, I want snack."
"You have lunch," says the woman.
"I want snack, I want snack, I want snack."
"Here. Orange. Sandwich. Bananna."
"I want snack." He's crying now.
"I want snack."
I notice that there's a baby in the bottom of the stroller. It is a deluxe double-decker.
"I want snack."
"Your mom don't give me snack," she says and is now feeding the baby some porridgey baby food.
"I want snack, I want snack."
"Shh, this is bookstore."
"I want snack."
"Here, eat lunch."
"I want snack." She is putting a plastic bowl in front of him.
"I want snaaaaack, I want snack." He's all snotty now, a long string running down from his nose to his lap.
"I want snack."
"I'm not a grocery store. If I have, I give to you. I don't have," says the nanny.
"I want snack."

I think for a second guiltily about my box of sufganiyot. And wonder how terrible it would be to give a kid a jelly doughnut to shut him up while writing a paper in which I discuss the pediatric obesity epidemic.

"I want snack."
"I call police."
"I want snack."
"Hello, police," she is saying into her cellphone, still feeding the baby. "Ezra being very bad, you come right away, ok?"
"I want snack."

The infant underneath is remarkably calm through all of this, happily slurping up her food. Surely there is something I can do to help this poor woman.

"I want snack, I want snack."

Maybe it's better to just ignore it. Don't want it to seem like I disapprove of the way she's handling her kids. Better not call any attention to it.

"I want snack."

I stare at my screen, BED BMI BED BMI is all I can manage to make out, the other words are just random letters swimming around spelling, I want snack.

I look around the room, there must be something I can do, I'm going to be a pediatrician after all. I've dealt with my fair share of screaming children. "I want snack." I'll distract him with a book. That's it. "I want snack." I spot Horton Hears a Whoo from across the room. "I want snack, I want snack," he's stomping now.

"Everyone watching," says the nanny. "Everyone thinking who's that baby."
"I want snack, I want snack."
"Shame, shame. Ezra."
"I want snack."
"Be quiet, this bookstore."
"I want snack."

I walk over to get Horton from the bookshelf, "I want snack." I give the nanny a big smile from behind Ezra and expertly crouch down next to him touching his shoulder, "Ezra," I say softly. He moves away, carefully not making eye contact with me and turning so I can see I'm not even in his peripheral vision, "I want snack, I want snack."

"No school today, he never like this." She tells me.
"I want snack." He burrows into her, "I want snack."
"Ezra," I try again.
"I want snack." He edges closer to the nanny."
"They're so cute," I mouth to her, nodding to the baby.
"I want snack, I want snack."
"Ezra, we go now, you get time out outside in rain."
"I want snack." She's packing up the stroller and taking him by the hand.
"Thank you," she says to me. I give her an apologetic sheepish smile.
"I want snack," she rolls the three of them toward the stairs.
"I want snack," leaving me behind with Horton, still crouching by their empty table.
"I want snack, I want snack," down the stairs.
"I want snack." I can hear the door open.
"QUIET," she whisper-screams.

And then muffled from the rain and the windows and a closed door. I hear from the street one last shrill cry

I WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANT SNAAAAAAAAAAAACK