The baby cried. The mother tried. In fact, she tried every trick in the book. The mother cuddled her child, jiggled her up and down, and offered her the plastic car keys she loved. Still, the baby cried. So, the mother, having used up all her ammunition, pulled out the big guns, so to speak.
The mother breast-fed the child, right there in the coffee shop. The effect was immediate. The baby hushed, then nursed, making those soft cooing noises young creatures make when they eat.
Safely hidden under her mother's red poncho, the child took her meal at a back booth. The mother and the child were discreet. Well, the mother was, anyway; the child had not yet learned about discretion. She just knew she had been miserable and now she was happy.
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