Mama Louisa's

Mama Louisa’s House of Lost Children

I went to this small breakfast place called Mama Louisa’s House of Pancakes. I got this spinach crepe, which I wolfed down rather quickly as usual. My toddler, Bradley, ate a small plate of scrambled eggs, while pointing to a small yellow ball that contained the syrup and saying proudly, “ball.” My daughter Lucy had a big plate of spaghetti. I tried to talk her out of it, but a five year old is hard to convince most of the time, so I caved and let her eat what she wanted. 8:30 in the morning is no time for a meltdown in a restaurant.

Bradley is 18 months, so he’s really difficult to keep quiet. He’s going through the “mine” phase, where everything, no matter what it is, is his and only his, or else he screams. Needless to say, it’s not my favorite phase. I miss the “I only want mommy” phase now that this one has reared its ugly head.

Naturally, Lucy knows he’s going through this phase and stole his toy cedar truck just to bait him. We’re sitting in Mama Louisa’s, eating our breakfast (and spaghetti) quietly, when suddenly Bradley screams.

“MIIIIIIIIINNNNNE!” he shouts so loudly that I think the cook on his smoke break can hear him.

“Lucy,” I say through gritted teeth. “Give it back to him; he was playing with it first.”

“But, Mom,” she begins, and I know where this is going. “He wasn’t even playing with it. It was just sitting there.”

She has a point, but what am I supposed to do? Bradley is now crying in that high-pitched screech and all that’s left is to take it from Lucy and give it to Bradley.

“Now.”

Lucy reluctantly hands it over to Bradley, who instantly stops crying. It’s a miracle. Lucy, meanwhile, crosses her arms and refuses to eat.

So I do what any mom would: I distract her. “Are you excited about your dance recital tonight?”

Immediately, she has forgotten the truck. “I’m going to wear my pink tutu and look so beautiful.” Beautiful. It was a word she was proud to say these days, and I wondered how long it would be before she started telling me how she was so ugly and she needed to change this or that to fix it.

“Well, we are really excited to see you. I’m sure you’ll look so beautiful. Right, Bradley?”

But he was gone. I swear I never saw him move. I checked under the table first and then cursed myself for letting him sit on the outside of the booth rather than the inside.

“Bradley?” I call quietly in an effort to keep from becoming hysterical. No answer. “Lucy – did you see where your brother went?”

“No,” is her innocent reply. Though I know that she’d have him on the first plane out of our house if she knew what she was doing.

“BRADLEY?!” I call even louder, hoping to hear a giggle or something to alert me to his location. Why must children be so small? I wonder as my hysteria mounts. “Has anyone seen a little boy? He’s very young, walks a little wobbly, has short brown hair…” I start imploring the other customers, who give me the what-kind-of-mother-are-you stare-down.

The waitress comes to me and puts her hands on my shoulder, like she knows me or at least has seen this same scene before..

“Is everything all right, ma’am?” she asks me, and I can’t help but look at her like she’s an idiot.

“My son is missing. He was right in our booth and now he’s gone,” I say, feeling suddenly out of breath.

“Well, did you check under the table? A lot of kids hide under there.” I want to slap her in the face but I don’t have the guts.

“Yes. I checked there first,” I say, my fists shaking.

“We’ll find him. What’s his name?” Finally, she decides to be helpful.

“Bradley,” I answer quickly, and continue my search. Where the hell could he be?

I head toward the bathroom in a flurry, remembering that he has a bit of an obsession with toilets and toilet paper (don’t judge). I go into the ladies room first and open the first stall. I see this sign hanging on the door that says in bold letters:

MAMA LOUISA’S HOUSE OF LOST CHILDREN

I am starting to panic. What in the world...? I stare at the pictures of at least ten lost children and then it suddenly occurs to me that they all have something in common.

I run quickly out of the bathroom and nearly knock over a waiter carrying a pot of hot coffee. I apologize hastily, though I believe it came out as “Sirree,” and keep running until I reach the front door.

There is Bradley. He looks almost identical to the children in the pictures in the bathroom. His nose and hands are pressed up against the glass and he peers in wonder at the toys and giant claw within. Suddenly he notices me and turns, a big grin on his scrambled egg covered face.

“Truck,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing at the toy truck in the case. Without a moment’s hesitation, I reach into my pocket and pull out two quarters.