Quack Quack

Sometimes as parents we have these brilliant ideas that we quickly realize are based entirely on fantasy. Like, going out to lunch with a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old -- neither of whom have proven that they can sit still for longer than 3.15 minutes. Dining out is not something we do on a regular basis, but we were all out together after a dentist appointment, and Chubby's Tacos was right across the street. And I was in a pleasant, "let's do something as a family" kind of mood.

"Do you want to go to Chubby's?" I asked Robert.

He paused and looked at me like I had three heads. "You mean go inside?" he asked.

I thought for a moment. "Yes, inside."

"Um, okay," he said reluctantly.

We walked inside, and I imagined that everyone was looking at us, admiring our fortitude and easy breezy demeanor. The kids were jabbering quietly. We didn't have to wait long in line. I picked out a nice table in the corner. We sat down, the Chubby's lady brought us our food, and everything was right in the world.




Yet, I was suspicious. I felt uneasy, like I was staring at a pot of soup that was simmering nicely but knew would start to boil and run over and make a huge mess of the stove top. I wanted to believe that my kids would behave, eat a decent amount, and keep their bottoms in their chairs. I have this theory in life that if you believe that something is going to happen, you attract that energy, and increase the chances of it coming true. So I was trying really hard to push any thoughts of messiness, loudness, and pickiness from my mind. But it's really hard to do that when you are a mother of young children. And it doesn't help when you are an anxious, foreboding freak like me.

Sure enough, within 3.15 minutes, things began to deteriorate. Maeve had eaten her three bites of chicken, and was refusing anymore. She had also carelessly set her rubber duck (toy from dentist office) on the table, which provided an opportunity for Max to confiscate it. I'm not sure when she will learn to keep her toys clutched to her body at all times. It would certainly make life easier for all of us. Max had also moved from a sitting position to a standing position. This change in stance is always a warning of imminent escalation and discord.




I told Max to drop the duck, as he was intent on making it fly dangerously close to his wayward fork. Maeve sensed that her duck's safety was in jeopardy, and demanded it back, "I wanna my duck!" she said over and over again. I noticed that Robert was managing to eat while occasionally ordering Max to sit down. I had only eaten a couple bites of my taco, but it was not sitting well. How can a person digest her lunch when facing a fight or flight situation? Obviously husbands do not have the same issues with digestion.

Do you ever watch your own life unfolding like it's a horror movie and you are to scared to actually participate? That's what happened next. By this point, half of our lunch was on the floor. Maeve was now standing up in her high chair, shrieking for her duck. And Max was on the run. He had apparently decided to drop the duck -- in the trash can. Despite being paralyzed by embarrassment and fear, I managed to yell, "Stop him!" As if some magical unicorn might materialize to rescue the duck from its dirty demise. Luckily Robert is a more practical person, and got his ass up to chase after Max.




I think at this moment, everyone in the restaurant placed their forks down, opened their mouths in awe, and held their loved ones tightly. Before Robert or any unicorn could intercede, Max dropped the duck in the trash can, and moved his path of destruction to an innocent bystander's table, stealing his salt shaker and sprinting in circles around the restaurant. I asked Robert to get the duck, and again, he looked at me like I had three heads. I looked in the trash can, and pretended to see it. "It's right there! I just can't reach it," I said. Robert falls for that one every time. Maeve forgot momentarily about the plight of her duck, and asked, "Where go Max?"
Instead of fighting or flighting, I chose pretending like we didn't know him. It works in a very temporary way.




Robert did eventually find the duck, and he took it to the bathroom for washing. The poor thing was covered in refried beans and pico de gallo. He also managed to convince Max to help him clean the duck, while I smiled wearily at the gawking diners and quickly threw away our largely uneaten lunch. (Except for Robert -- he had a clean plate). I'm still unsure about what exactly happened to the salt shaker.

On the way home, we were traumatized. No one said anything. I knew we were all thinking the same thing though. "Why in the hell did we just do that???" The answer is quite obvious, and has been for quite sometime. We are a bunch of quacks.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad