Moon Pie

Dear lady sitting next to me at the sushi restaurant in Omaha seven years ago,

"Your baby has such a round face!" you exclaimed as you peered over the booth at my second child, wedged snuggly between the vinyl-covered seat and my ample thighs.  "Thank you," I replied as I chopsticked a large piece of sushi into my mouth and gazed down at my beautiful baby, trying not to drip soy sauce on her already stained hand-me-down sleeper.  

"I would call her face a "moon-pie" face.  It looks as round as a moon-pie!  You know, it's so round, she'll get teased by boys later on in life. I hope she grows into her face, you know, for her own sake," you said with a piece of rice stuck to your lip bobbing up and down with each syllable you spoke.

I decided that comment wasn't worth exercising my table-manners and so, with a mouth full of an entire spider roll, I said "Nah wah. Ah hoff hah ayff ef ahwayff eff wahnd," which, in case you didn't speak Mouth Full of Spider Roll, translates to: "No way.  I hope her face is always this round."  

I'm sure you meant well.  Most people in the Midwest do. They're just that way.  They are a humble people, forced to eat raw fish that has travelled across, like, 12 states before it gets to them and for that, I am sorry.  I am not sorry, however, for my beautiful second child's perfectly circular face and the impression it made on you that day.  In fact, I just got that "moon-pie" face printed large and on canvas where it will be showcased front and center somewhere in our home and I can't wait to hang it up.  And just so you know, she's 7 and a half years old, her face is almost still just as round and she doesn't get teased by boys.  In fact, she gets chased.  

Sorry about that sushi. May your oval-faced days be filled with spicy yellowtail and an ecoli-free existence.

Sincerely, 

Annie Reynolds