You Might Not Want to Eat That

I think it’s pretty safe to say that cocktail parties are best suited to adults. If you have to bring a child, a sleeping infant is the top choice. Older kids, who migrate to television sets or filchable alcohol, are okay, too. Toddlers, though, are a distinct liability, especially when you throw easily accessible hors d’ouvres into the mix.
At this particular cocktail party, I was awkwardly minding my own business when I was accosted by a toddler. I heard her parents blathering about how their babysitter bailed at the last minute. Truthfully, I didn’t mind. She was really cute, two or three years old, with curly dark hair and soulful eyes. Since the party was made up almost exclusively of my husband’s business associates, I didn’t really have anything better to do than cozy up to the little tyke.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Zoe.”
“How old are you, Zoe?”
“Free.” She held up three chubby fingers.
“You’re a big girl, for only three! What are you eating?”
“Grapes.” She offered me one, which I accepted. She giggled happily.
Boredom and social isolation do strange things to a person. I found myself indulging little Zoe in a game, which consisted of her inserting grapes into my mouth. I would chew them dramatically, saying things like “Yummy!” and “MMMMMmmm good!” We’d been playing this game, which as heinously repetitive as it was, beat conversing with the vast majority of the assembled adults, for quite some time when I overheard her mother talking to someone.
“Zoe was vomiting all last night, but she pretty much stopped by noon. She managed to hold down some Teddy Grahams and apple slices, but before we got here, she had this weird, foul-smelling green diarrhea.”
“Game over,” I announced to the chortling bundle of bacteria who had been plying me with disease-laden fruit. I got up and ran into the kitchen.
“Play with me, Lady! Lady, play with me!” cried Zoe, following me as fast as her pudgy legs would allow.
Couldn’t she take a hint? “Go away,” I told her, and the little crybaby burst into tears.
Her mother came flying into the kitchen. “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Do you have to make another poopy?” Zoe nodded, looking at me balefully as her mother swept her up and whisked her off to the bathroom.
I can’t wait until the next time I get really sick. The first thing I’m going to do is get on the phone and invite Zoe and her parents over for cocktails.