I hate taking my kids out to eat at restaurants. I would rather get my toenails clipped, my vagina waxed, or my neck shaved.
My girls aren’t bad kids. They listen most of the time and, other than the occasional tantrum, they are usually quick to obey. Until we go out to eat. Then they turn into little psychopaths and I consider making a beeline for Canada and starting over.
Case in point: Mother’s Day 2015.
My husband, Chris, really wanted to make sure I enjoyed “my day.” He knew I wouldn’t want to to cook and he also knew that if he cooked he would leave the kitchen a huge mess and, ultimately, I would end up having to clean up after him. So, he took me and the kids out to lunch at the cute, little Italian place in nearby city.
I have one expectation when we go to a restaurant -- that my kids stay in their seats. They can stand in their seats, eat my food, tap on the table -- I don’t care! But don’t start running around like nobody ever taught you manners. Because I did teach you manners, you adorable Neanderthals.
By the time we get the kids seated and buckled into booster seats and high chairs, they are already asking where their food is.
“We haven’t even seen the server yet, honey. Just be patient.”
“But where’s my chicken nuggets and french fries?”
“They don’t have that here. We’ll find you something else you like.”
“CHICKEN NUGGETS!! CHICKEN NUGGETS!! CHICKEN NUGGETS!!”
By the time the waters are delivered (three minutes later) I’m wrestling one kid into her seat while taking the crayon away from the kid deciding she wants “red” as her appetizer.
I made sure to tell the server to bring the kids food first -- stat! Once their food comes, we spend the whole time cutting, blowing, and convincing our kids that fettuccine alfredo is just as yummy as chicken nuggets and french fries. She doesn’t believe us.
She takes a bite, decides she’s done, then proceeds to get out of her seat and run around the restaurant. A few people smile but, mostly, it’s not considered acceptable behavior. I try to make a bullpen out of chairs but she’s not having it. She wants to be free and nothing we do can stop her.
So I force her back into her seat, where she proceeds to scream at the top of her lungs. Then I flag down the server and tell them to bring our food pronto -- and make it TO GO.
We get our doggie bags and head out to the car, swearing we will never again take these kids to a restaurant.
Until next Mother’s Day.