Farewell, office chair / Lynette Peters

She wasn't eating. She was hungry but she wasn't eating. She had to be hungry because he had ruled out the other possible reasons a baby would cry. She couldn't be tired because she had just woken up from a nap 5 minutes ago and she couldn't have a dirty diaper because he had just changed her 4 minutes ago. She had to be hungry. It was time for lunch anyway. It was time to eat. But she just sat there in her high chair whining. It was fucking pears and apples for Christ's sake. Her favorite. What could possibly be the problem here? Each time she'd seem to settle down he'd offer her a bite and she'd turn her head at the last possible moment and slap her hand at the tiny spoon. Mashed fruit flew. C'mon. He could do this. Feeding his own child simply had to fall into the category of things he is capable of doing. His wife would be home any minute. He could do this.

The frustration on both sides quickly mounted. She, with the spoon being shoved in her face and he, with the spoon being shoved back in his. He finally finagled her into accepting a spoonful and she promptly spit it out and screamed. That did it. Frustration begot rage. Rage then boiled and bubbled over, demanding destruction. He got up from the chair and walked to the other end of the room in a last ditch effort to quell the impending manifestation of annihilation. All hope was lost when his eyes fell upon the old office chair. He had found it on the sidewalk several years ago, apparently being discarded. When he brought it home his wife wasn't as impressed as he'd anticipated. "It's a little big, don't you think? And what are those stains?" Both valid points but an office chair they needed and an office chair he'd found. Now he starred at in at noted it's plastic legs. He recalled carrying it into the apartment years ago and remembered it's weight - light enough to carry but heavy enough to need to be set down carefully.

It would do nicely.

His daughter let out another unprovoked scream and he lifted the old office chair several feet off the ground and slammed it back to the floor, shattering its plastic legs into more pieces than ever would be found. He immediately felt better. Looking down at the obliterated chair felt like a bucket of cool water being poured on his fiery head. Unfortunately the act had the opposite effect on his daughter. The loud bang had propelled her into a genuine fit of panic. She was hysterical now, probably more scared than hungry. Now with his wits back about him he quickly devised a plan of what to do. He'd bundle her up and take her for a walk. The change of atmosphere would do them both good. Yes, that surely was the right move at this point. Enough demolition work for one day - back to being a dad. Just as he was fitting her leg into the snowsuit his wife walked through the front door. She saw the uneaten food and the tears streaming down her daughter's face.

"Is everything OK?"

"She won't eat. I was going to take her for a walk."

While the reasoning sounded just, there was a crack of desperation in his voice that gave her pause. She picked up her daughter, instantly calming her as only a mother could. It was then that she noticed the broken pieces of plastic scattered across the floor.

"Did you break the chair?"

"Yes."

With that he rose, methodically picked up the chair pieces, and carried them outside to the curb. She fed her daughter her lunch.

Nothing more was ever said of the matter.