Self-Guided Missile

         The petite, blonde woman sat smiling quietly in the doctor’s waiting room, a direct opposite to her son, a 2-year-old, one-man wrecking machine dressed in an Oshkosh B’gosh jumper and a red short-sleeved shirt with a fireman embroidered on the front.  He looked like a cherub that might have jumped off the Sistine Chapel ceiling—dark, curly hair, rosy cheeks, and pouty lips—be he behaved more like an imp sent by Satan himself.  Nothing was safe from his touch: magazines and books took flight, and informational flyers regarding high blood pressure, diabetes, and stop smoking methods were thrown together on the floor and stomped on.  Running back and forth through the crowded waiting room, round and round the center magazine table, he managed to step on or trip over every pair of feet in the office.  Undaunted, he got backup from each fall and took off again, much to the concern of several older ladies who kept giving dirty looks to his smiling mama.  She, seemingly unconcerned about her son’s activities, watched him but said nothing, and he, for his part, hugged her knees on every circuit of the room.  The unfortunate people on each side of the woman cringed and curled their feet as far back under their seats as possible when he approached his mom and moved their bodies slightly away from her to avoid getting a perpetual motion machine on their laps.  They would gladly have exchanged their seats for ones on the other side of the room, but every seat was filled and some lucky folks stood in the hallway outside the main door.  After about ten minutes, a tall, lanky black man with a wrinkled face and short, white hair hauled himself to his feet, moved to the receptionist’s desk, and inquired quietly if the ball of energy and his mom had to wait much longer for their appointment, then sat back down, sighing.
         All at once, a flash of lightening lit the room from the window, followed by a loud crack of thunder that resounded off the walls, and the self-guided missile made a beeline for mom across the magazine table, scattering what was left of the reading material.  Reaching safety, he threw himself onto her lap and hugged her neck, quiet for the first time since his arrival.  The other clients breathed a collective sigh of relief—that is, until he began to scream and they realized that the quiet moment had only given him time to inhale a large breath.  As the lightening and thunder continued, his wails grew louder )if that was possible) and a plump, bespectacled woman motioned to her middle-aged daughter, stood up, and said to the receptionist in a loud voice, “Please make me another appointment.  I find it impossible to remain here another moment.”  The looks on the faces of the remaining people indicated that they were all considering the same move, when quiet settled over the office.  Every pair of eyes turned to the small boy, fast asleep in his mother’s arms.  The appearance of a cherub had returned, and with it, peace.  That is, until a nurse opened the door and said, “Kayla?”  The boy jumped and let out a small cry, but settled back to sleep as Kayla, his mom, stood up with him in her arms and made her way to the door, past a crowd of people who pulled their feet under their seats to make way for her.  As the door closed behind her, one old lady said in a stage whisper to her friend, “Thank God for thunder.”