We're at a restaurant, in a booth in the corner. The beast lies on the slick vinyl, his stubby little legs bicycling in the air, pedaling madly toward the blinking Christmas lights that hang overhead. I sit next to him, one arm bent akimbo in front of his body to keep him from wriggling off the seat and onto the sticky floor below. My other arm claws desperately at my food, stuffing chunks of meat into my mouth, huge wedges of naan, clumps of rice, frantic, shoveling, trying to fill the gaping maw that is my tired, aching body. My dining partner calls me a feral mama. I feel it.
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