I hear them whispering to each other. Luke nods his head excitedly. When the waitress arrives, the two of them look up toward her. He'll also have an ocean of syrup. I push away from the table quietly, praying no one sees as I head to a bathroom stall.
Maternal urges have no manners.
They wake up and howl at whim. They need to be carried out of the restaurant to avoid a public scene, soothed in the privacy of restroom cubicles. What a beautiful, beautiful father. It hurts to see this. To think of the quiet in our home that could be filled with the sound of a spatula making a child a thousand pancakes.