Like A Kid Again

You ever have those days where you just feel silly?

I have those days sometimes – days when the world seems to be my playground more so than others; when the clouds in the sky seem to dance like my own personal puppet show.

My momma had already tired of my antics by lunchtime and was practically shovin' me upstairs, beggin' me to start gettin' ready.

“Mommy!” I whined, “But I don't wanna take a shower, I wanna play with you!”

“Lord help me,” she muttered, maskin' a laugh, but whinin' back nonetheless, “You had better behave yourself today girl. The whole family is comin' and we have reservations at The Hilton, don't forget. I'm asking you... Please, try to control yourself.”

“Scouts Honor,” I affirmed, jumpin' to attention. But we both knew I had never been in Scouts and would do as I would do, albeit my attempts at anything otherwise.

It was Thanksgiving, and we were due to meet the family at 3:00 for a “lovely, traditional, and luxurious dinner” at the Hilton restaurant that overlooked the bay. The restaurant sat on the top floor and was said to be the finest in town. Still, I couldn't quite overcome the idea of my Thanksgiving maintainin' its traditionalism while simultaneously bein' cloaked in luxury.

After I had been properly primped and plated exactly per my mother's every instruction...I felt perfectly...coiffed. I hate that word. It's stuffy. But, that's how I felt. I may as well have had one of those huge Victorian collars round the back of my neck for all I felt I could move.

Dressed in a silk blouse the color of leaves just before all the life has completely dried-up, and a black pleated skirt (the pleats servin' to do little more than accentuate my thighs, leavin' no extra room for maneuverability; assurin' me that were one of my stilettos to fail, my knees would be of no use in stoppin' what was guaranteed to be an embarrassin' fall) my mother squealed with delight when she saw me finally emerge from my bedroom. It's true...I give her few opportunities to dress me up like a doll.

It wasn't like my family didn't know about my condition. It was more like, there was this giant rug we dragged around with us so we could continue to sweep everything underneath it.

Jeaux groped your husband?

Sweep, sweep.

Jeaux cursed at your nine year old?

Sweep, sweep.

Ohhh, Jeaux groped your husband, felt up your new boob-job, cursed your daughter and told your grandmother she was fartin' like a pack mule?

Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!

Really, I was kinda glad for my lack of motility. Maybe it would create a sort-of “horse-blinder” effect so I wouldn't be goaded by too much.

I was amazed at how much I had managed to work myself up by the time we came to the top floor of the Hilton. My legs were shakin' so much I was sure I would fall down with my next step, the platform heals not doin' me any favors in bearin' extra support for my unsteady equilibrium.

Seein' my nerves stand on end, my mother's look of concern deepened across her frown lines, knowin' me well enough to know that the more nervous I am the less control I have.

But there was no time to waste in worryin' over things that had yet to happen, for my Aunt Perdy came swoopin' in to bring us to the rest of the group.

“Oh! Jeaux, you sit down right over here by me! I want to hear everything!”

My Aunt Perdy was one of those women that lived her days under a veil of nostalgia, whether through her own children, or new prey like me, she craved hearin' the newest tales of our youthful adventures.

My mother, bein' the smart lady that she is however, kindly refused the seat for me, pushin' me down the line (a rather long line, I realized, barely pullin' my eyes from the floor) to the other end where the kids were gathered. She only had to ask two other people to scoot down and move their entire place-settings, but she managed to position herself right next to me, and on my other side a line of children, all under the age of 12.

Kids, we both knew, were easier. If I was goofy, the adults accepted that I was tryin' to entertain the kids. The kids, on the other hand, just thought I was goofy or brilliant, either way, no harm no foul. (That was, however, promisin' that no little heathen decided to piss me off, but I figured they had all been given a similar warnin' as I had.)

Somehow, I managed to keep my indiscretions to a minimum the entire meal.

Aside from a few straws in a number of nostrils and some sugar packet launchers, me and my minions were complete angels. (What else did they expect a bunch of kids to do with 114 extra forks?)

I even managed to mask the urge I'd had to reach out and pat my cute ole' Grandpa Joe on his baldin' head, as an attempt to dust off a piece of lint. He might've looked like a cute old man, but I didn't dare remind him that that's what the rest of us saw. I'm sure he would prefer believin' we're still just as scared of him as when he stood a solid six inches taller.

My mother did her best to answer any questions directed at me, for me, before I had the chance to embarrass myself...or her.

After the majority of the kids found their blackened game-hens, a little too baby-chickeny, most everybody on my side of the tracks wanted something else. Anything else. But a stop to McDonaalds for some chicken nuggets was quickly negated by my quick reminder that “nuggets are just like that but all chopped up and fried into tiny balls,” – oops – it was decided that a stop at Chuck-e-Cheese would work well to feed everyone and let us all work out our pent-up energy. (And you'll notice I said “our”, because yes, at that point, I was even resigned to categorizin' myself with the kids.)



When we finally made our way to Chuck-E-Cheese, I indeed felt like one of the kids. The loud dings of the games and rush of laughter and squeals almost made me forget how perfectly “coiffed” I was.

Immediately acceptin' the role of chaperone, I went off with the kids to find the fun.

It wasn't difficult. Kids can be like a pack of rabid wild dogs. You come up on them unawares, and you might be in trouble. You run with the pack, and you're probably gonna be okay.

I had already been initiated into the “circle” during dinner, and so we all ran off together for the arcade games.

The first game we tried lit up like the 4th of July as I beat my opponent. The skinny pale-faced kid had probably beat every video game he'd ever tried.

“No fair Jeaux! You cheated!”

“Nathan I did not! There's no way to cheat this! You point and shoot!” I laughed.

Lookin' bruised, the kid turned to walk away, and even though I wanted to tell him that maybe if he'd ever stayed outside long enough to shoot a real BB gun or sling-shot that maybe he'd know what bein' a good shot was really all about, I only threw my arm over his shoulders and mussed his blondish hair.

“Don't worry, I'd bet twenty bucks you could beat any other kid here with a score like that,” I said.

“With magnifiers like that on his face, what's stopping him?” came a squeaky voice behind us.

I recognized the antagonizing-little-attitude-with-legs from dinner. She was my Aunt Florence's step-daughter from her 2nd marriage. And she was something else.

I did my best to ignore her, but couldn't help feel Nathan's shoulders tense under my arm, and couldn't help but think of how many times he'd been teased for his glasses. Or pale skin. Or scrawny figure. Or who knows what else. And family didn't treat one another like that. I'd have to think on what to do about her.

Some of the younger girls came runnin' up on us just then, makin' me tense now, sure I was about to be run over by the small herd.

“Jeaux! Jeaux! Will you come with us to the ball pin? Please?” They all chimed together, draggin' out and elevatin' their 'please' until I was sure I would soon hear glass shatter.

Puttin' my hands up to my ears, I caved, laughin, “Okay Okay, let's go let's go! Just shhhhh!”

Gigglin' with either the giddiness of basically takin' me to my knees, or that their “we'll kill her with cuteness” plan worked, I was then bein' dragged to the ball pin.

Truthfully, a ball-pin can be a hazardous place. But, who can deny it, it's always the best part.

I'd been dunked, and “drowned” and revived a horrible sea-monster at least three times. I'd sent children flyin' and showed a toddler how to ride the waves and acted as a human safety raft when we ship-wrecked.

I also found a very nice little prize. Pushed right up against my cheek, I suddenly felt as though I were bein' licked. And for a second, I turned expectin' to yell at somebody for bein' nasty. But no, it was just a ball. Just a slime covered, who knows who's, snot or spit covered ball. Nice.

Instinctively, I grabbed it and threw it to the far side. But now, my face and my hand were smeared in the goo. I'm not a germ-freak, persay, but come on, that's gross.

“Time-out!” I yelled. “Bathroom break!”

It was good timin' I assume, because I soon had a line of little girls filin' behind me.

Aunt Florence's daughter saw us making a B-line for the bathroom, and ducked into the door just in front of us.

“Hey!” one little diva, (soon to be fightin' for the “I've got the most attitude” championship title) yelled, “No cuts!”

“I'm not cutting. I was just here first. Deal with it.”

Seein' as how a few of the girls were already bouncin' and holdin' their privates, this girl's continuously callous demeanor was really startin' to rub me the wrong way.

I was helpin' one of the other little girls, my baby cousin Tiffany, wash her chubby little hands. She was just a hair too short to reach the sink by herself.

Miss-Attitude sidled up to the sink next to ours. But, when she reached under the faucet, a spray of water hit her palm just right, and came flyin' our way. Sprayed in the face. My perfectly plated hair, felt a touch of moisture. My mom was gonna freak out.

Oh well. What's done is done, I thought.

Setting Tiffany on the ground, I grinned, not waitin' for Miss Attitude to attempt an apology (and pretty sure she wouldn't have anyway) and reached under my nozzle, funneling the water through my arms and poppin' it out of my fist and right into her chest.

“Ahh!” she screamed, taken totally off guard. I'm sure she didn't expect for an “adult” to react so childishly.

I grinned, and shrugged my shoulders, “Oops.”

The little twerp actually growled at me. I mean, a low, in the chest, rattle the throat, growl.

And it was on.

Sprayin' each other and flingin' water with our hands as fast as we could fill them, the water-war soon included all the girls in the bathroom. I'm not even sure that they were all family members.

Squealin' and gigglin', we ducked behind stall partitions and tried to use paper-towels as shields. Soon, the floors were completely covered in water, and it wasn't long before there was a fall.

“Truce!” I shouted. “Truce! Truce!” Miss Attitude and I were both soaked from head to toe. Unless we were willin' to just straight-up duke it out, I think we'd gotten each other about as good as we could.

“You're mascara's running,” she taunted.

“You're A-cup is showin,” I spat back, pointin' at her white blouse.

“Yeah, well, your hair's a wreck!”

“Yeah, well not even Tim Gunn would approve of that shirt."

“Ah!” she gasped.

“Would you two stop fighting please! We're all wet. My mommy is gonna be mad at me,” squeaked Tiffany, tuggin' at my soaked skirt.

Crap. I was about to get every single one of us in trouble.

Then, I had an idea. The hand dryer. It was one of those turbo-jet fancy-type dryers. There wasn't much to be done with my hair, but, I thought, I bet it could help to dry us out.

Skippin' over to the dryer, I sat down underneath it. The automatic sensor turned the blower on, partin' my hair down the middle. Lifting my face to the jet, I was overcome by the amount of air forced into my mouth and throat.

Jerkin' my head back down, I was greeted by more laughs and pointin' fingers. “Do it again Jeaux!”

I could feel the air blowin' into my mouth, movin' my skin from side to side under the pressure, and makin' my lips vibrate. It must have looked awfully funny, because another round of laughs ripped through my audience.

Then they were all around me. Arms, hands, shirts, faces, feet. Everyone was tryin' to stick something under the hand dryers. With the two dryers along the wall, and a line of girls underneath them, and only a few stragglers circlin' round, we were soon makin' another game of who could make the funniest faces into the wind.

That's when they found us.

The moms.

A line of them, in search of their young, whom they had entrusted in my care. Not that anybody was injured, but I wondered if we'd be receivin' a few dry-cleaner's bills. Lookin' from the heated faces of the surprised mommas to the frilly and soppy Sunday-best dresses, I was sure of it.

My mother was last in line.

Apologies all around, we were all shoved out of the bathroom and into our respective vehicles.

I waved goodbye to my little friends as I tried to drown out the sound of my mother's voice as she continued to chastise my antics and whine over my ruined hair and possibly ruined silk shirt. It didn't look like my cousins were havin' a better time of it with their parents either.

But we were all smiles.