Shrieks and screams, clattering silver, flying food. Feeding time at the zoo maybe? Not quite. A highschool cafeteria? I think not. I have just described to you dining out in a restaurant with my three children. My husband and I have recently come to the very unfortunate conclusion that eating dinner out (or any meal for that matter), with my three little darlings is not as appetizing as it once was. I used to love the thought of us all gussied up to go out. Let’s face it, eating any entrée that isn’t made of 100% ground round is always appealing to me. Along came child number three. That’s where the thought ended and reality set in. Who do we think we are? Parents of three or more children should be outlawed from dining in restaurants that don’t serve drinks in a mouse head cup. It goes against nature. It just should not happen, and chances are it will not happen. You put together two adults and one toddler, maybe two and your dining experience is not exactly a night at the Rainbow Room but it is definitely, manageable. You throw in one hungry, exclusively breastfed six-month old, and you’re lucky if you make it out of there without committing a felony.
Case in point: We had driven around in a circle six times to find this restaurant, and yet our drive there seemed rather uneventful. “How sweet,” I thought, as I glanced back at my two sons dressed so cute in matching orange polos, and how their outfits coordinated perfectly with my daughter’s orange terry dress. My son had fallen asleep and my four year old daughter was playing peek-a- boo with my 6 month old in the back of the minivan. Trying to be optimistic of our venture, I ignored the aggravated look on my husband’s face, as I knew he was extremely hungry and thought to myself, “This may turn out to be a really nice dinner.” Unfortunately, I could not forsee what would take place the minute we parked and my two year old son awoke from his short nap. I should have known that waking him before his “natural” waking time would be a recipe for disaster, as it did in this instance. My son grudgingly awoke and refused to get out of the car and walk. Luckily, after minutes of pleading, my husband finally convinced him that he would have to walk on his own two feet and would not be able to “yee- ha” into the restaurant. “One small battle won,” I thought, more to come, I’m sure.
The waitress seated us towards the back right corner of the restaurant. I felt as though I was maneuvering through a minefield as I weaved my children in and out of the rows of tables, being careful not to let their swinging monkey arms touch anybody. Some people may have been disturbed by the waitress seating us so far in the back. Not me. I passed her a grateful glance as my troops piled into their seats. “May I take your order?” She asked, as she placed a basket of bread onto the table. But before my little soldiers could grab their ration, my six month old grabbed the whole basket and flung it from the table. “Could we have another basket of bread, please?” I humbly asked.
Minutes later, another warm basket of bread was placed on the table and my husband began to divvy it out. “Can I have butter?” my two year old asked. I held my breath as I watched my husband slice into the roll to butter it. “I should have spoken up, but by that time, it was too late.” “I don’t want it like THAT daddy! Why did you cut it?” My son wailed and screamed. My husband looked up at me bewildered, as I shot him a consoling glance and explained to him that he likes the butter on top of the roll, not cut. My husband proceeded to take another roll out of the basket and push it firmly down with his fist, in order to butter the top of the bread. I clenched my teeth. “Not like that DADDY…”
Eventually, my husband buttered the roll just the way my son liked, and peace was restored. By that time, our waitress had brought out our main courses and we devoured them in minutes. I glanced at my watch, thinking it was nearing midnight, but to my surprise it was only 9 1/2 minutes since we had arrived at the restaurant. Time to move ‘em out.
