I just sent my son off to a birthday party at a restaurant. I’ve bitten off all my fingernails worrying about how he’ll act in public with food. I’m slightly comforted by the fact that he’s going with a slew of kids the same age—but only slightly. You see, we have all but given up on the idea of eating out with the family. Occasionally we will forget why we put a ban on public dining and we will go to a restaurant with our children. I’m usually reminded why I’d rather spend a day in the stockade than dine out with my family by the appetizer.
Our oldest son wanted to go to Red Lobster for his birthday. Immediately one of the children tried to order a frozen drink. I’m kicking him under the table—trying to remind him of the talk we had in the car about ordering all the extra stuff that inflates the bill. But the waiter is more than happy to take orders from a pint size boy with spiked hair. I wonder if he realizes that I deduct the cost of add-ons from his tip? Probably not or he wouldn’t have completely ignored me to bring a kid a virgin Pina-colada. That’s about the time he got hit in the back of the head with a garlic-cheese biscuit. And, yes, it was me that threw the biscuit—but most diners dismissed it since we had a table full of children.
The next twenty minutes were spent watching my children throw crayons at each other—despite our angrily whispered warnings, and whine about how hungry they are and how long it’s taking to get their mac and cheese. And I’m thinking that I can’t believe a fish place would serve mac and cheese or that I would have to pay six bucks for a plate of it. The meal finally arrives and my kids attack it like they’ve been living in a hole in my basement while I throw bread scraps at them. They literally scarf everything down before I’ve had time to mush my potato with my fork. That’s when the real fun begins as the kids squirm and fall down underneath the booth because exploring the food covered carpet is so exciting to them. I’m constantly tugging my daughter up by her pig-tail while trying to shovel my own plate of food into my mouth. I think I ate fish. Not really sure. I wasn’t really tasting it.
The bill came and my husband looked like he was going to toss his crab leg at the waiter. He’s never reached for his wallet so slowly and I know he was contemplating making a run for it and leaving me and the children to wash dishes to pay for the ticket. It was adventure on the most hideous level. I even came home with a crab leg stuck in my purse. I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to know how it got there.
I guess you can see why we’ve practically prohibited outside family dining. It’s bad enough at home—where you’re allowed to flick your kid on his ear when he starts bouncing up and down on his chair like a monkey. But for all my attempts at sane family dining I’m a complete failure and my only sliver of hope rests in the fact that the birthday party is being held at a restaurant called “Pirate Island Pizza.” You can’t give a restaurant that name without expecting debauchery and flying pepperoni—right?
2 comments:
We are trying to enforce a family dinner routine and you would think it wouldn't be difficult to get the kids to at least try a bite of what they have been served. By the end of the meal, after the kid has refused to eat numerous times, he finally takes a bite and discovers that it wasn't so bad after all. Morning news tells us that a family that eats together is more likely to do well in society but the adults have to be wondering why they try so hard. The only plus that I can see is that Lucas is so dang cute saying the blessing while being guided by his big brother.
Our family dinners can't be the bonding experiences the experts talk about. Someone always winds up crying and being grounded before the meal is over. Oh, and something always spills or breaks. Good times!
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