Out of the Mouth of Babes

It was at a British family's home one day after church. A group of rather distinguished personages were assembled for lunch, seated around a large table, laden with Indian food. The patriarch was holding forth about his time in Delhi while we all listened attentively to his very proper English diction. Other family members were from South Africa and the States. A beautiful little curly-headed blond child, Megan, about three years of age, eyed me across the table. She shyly smiled at me every time she caught my eye. As the adults' stories became too complex for her to follow, she began ducking down, plate level, to see if I was still looking at her--making eyes at me the whole time. Megan was delightfully flirtatious in the most wholesome, childlike way. I pushed around a fork-full of chutney hot enough to lift me straight up out of my chair. It was incredible that anyone could eat such a menu item. Besides, it was laced with putridly spiced raisins--foul on two accounts.
I was lost in fantasy about how to rid my plate of this noxious mixture unobtrusively, when I felt a gentle nudge at my elbow. Megan was leaning against me, like a cat in a barnyard. "May I please sit with you?" she asked, wide-eyed. Across the table, Mama squirmed. "Meggie, maybe the lady is trying to finish her meal. It might be best to wait."
Megan looked terribly disappointed and started to back away.
"Oh no," I said. "You sit right here on my lap. Will that be a good thing?"
She nodded vigorously and clammored up and settled on my knees, head against my chest. She was big enough to sit still and small enough to be able to hold her and still spoon food over her head into my mouth.
Megan leaned back against me, looking satisfied with herself.
The conversation turned from the patriarch's ventures to the younger brother's experience at work the day before. I mixed the chutney in with some rice to disguise it and pushed it to the side of my plate. Megan wiggled about, moving her head back and forth against me as if to find just the right place to lean.
Brother had just finished his anecdote and quiet reigned momentarily after the polite laughter subsided.
"Mama!" Megan exclaimed. "Barbara's boosies are much bigger than yours are! Did you know that?"
Now I knew why she was rolling her head back and forth across my chest. Mama was as red as a beet root, choking back her embarassment.
"No, Megan. I didn't know that." Looking at the hostess, she added without taking a breath, "Were you going to explain how to make this delightful chutney?"
There was muffled throat-clearning and chortling around the table as the hostess, who was partially deaf and hadn't heard the exchange about our "boosies," began her discussion of where to find the most nefarious admixture known to mankind.
Megan looked up into my face. "They are bigger" she said, still waiting for validation for her finding.
"I think you may be right" I whispered back. She smiled, satisfied and leaned back into me, fingering the tablecloth contentedly.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see our snowy-haired host regarding Megan, dabbing at his eyes, his glasses held in one hand and a huge smile on his face. "Lovely," he chortled. "Simply lovely!"