Dining Out With My Little %$@! (I Mean Sweet Angels)

When you have your first kid, things don't change a lot in the beginning. Sure, there's a miniature pooping machine who's going to dictate your actions for the rest of your life (or at least until they go to college), but other than that, their first year lulls you into a false sense of complacency.

You still get to eat out. You still wear makeup and jeans and shirts that don't double as pajamas. You still think you're going to be able to shower every day, uninterrupted. Ah, that first golden year. That sweet baby who will sit still in your lap or a high chair at a restaurant. The one you get compliments on how well they behave. You may even think, "Gosh, this parenting thing is easy."

And then they turn two. I don't know what happens, but eating at a restaurant usually ends with someone crying. (If it's not the two year old, it's probably his parents.) If there aren't any tears, I guarantee that there's either a temper tantrum, thrown food, or pissed off parents. Sometimes all of the above. And all the while the toddler is channeling his inner Linda Blair until he gets back to the safety of home, where everything has been baby proofed and he can be a little jerk safely while his parents cry in a corner and pray for kindergarten to begin. (Also, I'd like to take this moment to put my rusty math skills into play and mention that if you multiply the dinner by the number of kids and divide it by two frazzled parents, shit's going to get real.)

This is the stage we are currently, ah, enjoying. By enjoying, I mean I would rather have all my fingernails pulled out than eat out in public with my children. Yes, CHILDREN, plural. Because as much as they would like to use the baby as a convenient scapegoat for all their troubles, they can be little a-holes themselves. The 8 year old likes to argue about everything. Since he's accumulated tons of experience in his long life, he knows everything though, so it's alright. The teenager wants to do teenager-y things like eye rolling, deep sighing, and getting the 8 year old in (more) trouble by tattling on some minor infraction. Meanwhile, Dad and I are the equivalent of a magician and a three ring circus, trying to entertain the toddler until the waitress comes with food that we can shove in his face hole. This involves the crayons and coloring menus, iPhone video capability, and wrestling him back into the high chair that he's trying to climb out of every forty three seconds.

And this folks, is the story of my life.

Basically, my husband and I walk out frustrated, pissed off, and freaking exhausted. Apparently we aren't that bright though, because we try it again, thinking that this time we'll surely get different results.

Lately, the two year old demon channeling angel of mine (face of an angel, temper of the devil) has made things much more interesting by refusing to eat more than 4 different foods. And none of them are going to be what we order. He has decided that he doesn't like the old standby of chicken fingers.  He turns his nose up at apples, grapes, and mashed potatoes. His palate has grown far too advanced for such childhood favorites as french fries. Basically, we aren't even getting the reprieve the waitress would normally bring because now we're trying to juggle entertainment duties and eating. (By eating, I mean shoveling food in at a rate that will probably ensure Tums are in my future.) Not to mention that we get to have witnesses to what is obviously bad parenting since he won't ingest anything other than chocolate milk and lemon water while throwing crayons and other projectiles and pitching a fit to get down and run rampant through the restaurant.

He's lucky he's cute. And cuddly. And he smells good after a bath. (These are all things I have to remember when I'm trying not to hang him from his toes at the restaurant.)

One day, I'll look fondly back at these days, when my husband and I are dining quietly, enjoying the ability to eat our meal while it's still hot. We'll reminisce how cute they were in their little jeans, their ketchup covered faces smiling with glee. We'll think about the times we stayed home to avoid tantrums and judgy stares. And we'll think, "It's probably not as bad as we made it out to be." Until the three year old at table 12 starts screaming because her Mom gave her ketchup that she didn't want and the six year old knocks over his milk into his father's lap. Then we'll probably smile, clink our glasses together, and be glad we made it through (mostly) intact.

Why are you calling me Mom, strange little boy?