Scene: The 75th Street Gallery, Prairie Village, Kansas
We were, as usual, late. I'd plied the little angel with extremely healthy and locally grown snacks -- ranging from peanut-butter crackers to Goldfish to leftover conversation hearts -- on the drive so she wouldn't silence the gallery crowd with her thundering demands for more foodstuffs to put IN HER BELLEH.
We frantically parked approximately eight miles from the gallery and trudged up the hill while my girl tried to convince me I should let her walk on a six-inch, ice-covered ledge towering above an eight-foot drop onto sharp rocks in the dark. While I lack sense when it comes to nutrition, I am aware that she has inherited her mother's inability to walk without losing her balance every few feet. I said no.
As we neared the door, I saw what one expects to see at a gallery: Adults dressed in fashionable clothing sipping wine from cute, plastic cups near expensive and very delicate art. I paused to consider whether there was any point in venturing inside, albeit briefly. As the stereotypical parent of an only child, I often drag her places in which she is the only person three feet tall. I pressed on.
Honestly, I didn't do it because I'm an art lover (though, hey! art! I like art!). I did it because I wanted to see my old friend Bill Rose, who had a show? is that what you call it? opening last night, and Bill a) is super cool and b) I haven't seen him in a long time and c) he always, always, always shows up to support me in my creative attempts. Adult friendships and small children don't always mix, but damn it, I try.
(Imaged thieved from Bill's Web site -- I KNOW! Amazing, right?)
We were about three feet inside the gallery when we encountered a delicately carved gourd of some sort on a pedestal right in the little angel's path. I grabbed her by the hood of her parka and guided her away sort of like you would a puppy on a leash with no regard at all for her neck. I noticed adults giving us those sideways what-the-hell-are-you-thinking-woman glances. I held my head high and looked around for Bill, who rewarded my effort with a genuine smile and a huge hug that made enduring the haters so totally worth it.
In the midst of my joy, the little angel tugged at my sleeve. "Mommy!" she stage-whispered, pointing to a table containing open bottles of red wine, fine chocolates and small cups of some very elegant form of Rich People Trail Mix. "I'm still hungry!"
Seriously, child. Open bottles of red wine that you want to approach near Bill's paintings. No, instead, I'd like to just give you this container of plastic explosives and a malfunctioning sparkler.
She made a beeline for the table, veering as though she were still wearing roller skates. She rounded the corner, coming perilously close to a heavy marble statue thing. I saw a woman dressed in a feathered or fringed or tassled or something jacket approaching me, a bright smile on her face. She had "gallery owner" written all over her.
ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.
She was very pleasant, but I could see the pain written in the corners of her eyes. Pain, I think, caused by me bringing my five-year-old wobbler into her House of Beautiful.
I leaned down to my daughter. "Let's just go say goodbye to Bill, okay? I want to talk to him just a while longer before we go. Do you think you can not touch anything for ten more minutes?"
We hovered near Bill as he finished up a conversation with two deserved admirers. The little angel looked longingly at a chair covered with an elegant camel trench coat. She wanted to sit down. Her own white parka was smeared with road dirt from the full-body rubdown she gives the Corolla every time she passes it. She absently reached down into the little cup of trail mix and popped in her mouth ...
a wasabi pea.
I looked down just in time to see her eyes go wide in shock and horror.
"Mommy!" she yelped. "It's hot! It's HOT! HOTHOTHOTHOTHOTHOT!"
My brain flashed: Bill to flaming daughter to Bill to flaming daughter.
I knelt next to her and held out my hand as casually as possible. She spit the flaming pea into it just as the women turned to look at me. Drool connected the pea to my daughter's mouth in a shimmering fairy-dusted spit stream accented by the blazing gallery lights.
I dropped the pea into the cup and pretended like nothing had happened as my five-year-old wobbled like a baby bird at my side, pawing at her mouth.
Carry on, world. Nothing to see here.
