Battle

Shaded benches on the National Mall are underrated. Especially ones underneath trees. They are amazing. You can sit there on a summer day and see everything. Or read. I’m a huge fan of both options. It’s a win-win.

Sitting there on an unusually cool DC summer day, the world could not have been a better place. Slight breeze muffling the sounds of screaming middle school kids on their annual trip to Washington D.C. A casual tourist family would pass by every so often trying to by-pass the busier sidewalks closest to the Smithsonian.

Runners passed by like they were racing.  Runners are everywhere in DC. They can be spotted at all hours of the day. I say they because you will encounter at least three before you reach your destination. Like most other things, DC takes running very seriously. They passed by me as often as I turned pages.

Slowly a family inched by. A mother, father, and an empty stroller. The toddler was straggling behind. Refusing to be helped wanting to walk on his own. He would have been adorable if he wasn’t beet red in the face, either from sunburn or the heat of the day. His face matching the red stripes of his American flag t-shirt.

His parents turned muttering to each other. Both looked like they needed a nap as much as the child. Battling other tourists and lugging about that giant monstrosity of a stroller would do that to anyone. The father nodded. The mother walked over to the child.

–Come on. It’s time to go home.

There was a pause as the child realized what was happening. His reaction to this realization was immediate and impressive.

He threw himself on the ground with such force I winced; grimacing in pain. He screamed at the top of his lungs. He didn’t care that gravel doesn’t provide the softest landing. He just yelled and yelled. Words were insufficient. Only the bellowing of unhappy sounds would do. He was too busy thrashing to be bothered with tears.

Honestly, it was an incredible display. The kid knew how to fully commit to dramatics.

The mother, not so impressed. She hadn’t moved a muscle. I imagine I missed her sigh at her child’s reaction as he flailed on the ground. She waited patiently. Face passive, revealing nothing. Hands in the back pockets of her shorts. She didn’t look back at her husband. She didn’t rush over to calm down her child. She just waited. A pure model of patience. Her display was even more impressive than the child’s.

The father rolled his eyes at what I assume must have been the length of time this kid screamed. We were going on ten minutes watching. Now, he was grabbing fistfuls of gravel and dirt and throwing them. Not that he could throw very far. Between the short arms and his angle on the ground he was really just dropping dirt all over himself. It was an artistic expression of his disappointment.

At last, the final cry was yelled. It barely made it out of his mouth. His chest was heaving trying to catch his breath. The mother waited one more minute then walked over. She looked down at her child.

–Ready to go home now?

–No.

He whispered it. Still as unsatisfied but unable to do anything to stop the inevitable. She bent over to pick him up. He tried to get away however, had forgotten how his limbs worked. He couldn’t even lift his arms to deflect her touch. She scooped him up like a sack of flour. His stomach facing the ground, arms and head hung in utter and complete defeat.

The father wiped away a grin as his wife walked over.  It was a parental victory and he was amused at his son’s futile efforts at independence. He proudly swung his free arm around his wife as they walked off home; pushing the stroller as they went to their hotel. The boy’s legs swayed back and forth to the rhythm of his parents steps as they turned out of sight.