Sunday Dinners...EXPOSED....

Recently my family and I moved back to where I grew up. One of the best things about being closer to family is a new tradition we have started--Sunday dinners after church. A time where cousins can interact and grandparents can catch up with the kiddos. But if you are anything like my family, going out to eat is quite a chore. In my case awhile back, I think I vowed to never go out again. Here is what happened:

We had decided to go out to Olive Garden. One of my favorite restaurants...BUT if anyone knows Olive Garden, they know it is always CRAZY BUSY! Anybody with children understands what a gamble and risk you are taking when you bring any child, let alone a then 22 month old in a nice restaurant. That day was no exception as we entered the doors greeted by the savory smells of garlic, basil, breadsticks, and….fat. My heart started racing as Finley begs to be put down so she can tap her black “tappy” shoes on the red brick floor. As we get seated, Finley races around the table nearly running into waiters and waitresses balancing their tray full of steaming food. As they recover their balance, the waitresses give us looks as if to say, “Why can’t you keep that child under control.” I get caught up in the “ring around the rosy” game as I am chasing Finley around the table trying to get her in her high chair. Dizzy and out of breath, I finally grab a hold of her black shirt and start to put her in the high chair. Kicking and screaming, Finley let the tables around us know that she would have nothing to do with the humane adage of sitting peacefully for a nice, quiet lunch. Disgusted patrons turned their heads our way and then murmured their disgraces under their breath sarcastically how this was going to be a GREAT lunch!

Our waitress, a young brunette, who appeared to be in her twenties looked quite perturbed and stressed as she reached our table. Her look said it all. “Oh great…screaming kids=mess and no good tip.” Don’t you love stereotypes? She hurried us through lunch trying to get us out as quick as possible. In the meantime, Finley, threw just about everything she could get her paws on off the table. She started flinging her crayons towards the table next to us nearly pelting an older lady in the eye. After she had played too much Frisbee with the drink holders and almost decapitated that same lady that about lost her eye, I decided Finley needed a change of scenery and I needed to empty my bladder.

Tap, tap tap, tap, went Finley’s shoes. “Hi….hello….potty…” went Finley’s mouth at about every table we passed. She had to let everyone know where her “tappy” shoes were headed. Once we got to the bathroom, we had to wait in line. Gone were the savory smells of basil and garlic. Enter even stronger smells---sewage. Standing behind two larger “behinds” which jiggled to the dance of “I have to go RIGHT now”, I lost my appetite. When Finley and I finally got into the tiny stall, I let out a sigh of bladder relief. Finley squealed with delight because we were in a room with 2 of her favorite things…no wait 3 of her favorite things. A toilet, toilet paper, and a shiny door handle. As I started lining the toilet seat with toilet paper, something that I am OCD about, my sigh of relief turned into a gasp of horror. There is hardly any toilet paper left! I had just waited in line with a 22 month old, a full bladder, and an urgent need to go...really bad if you know what I mean. I carefully plop my bottom down on the 3 squares of carefully thought out toilet paper on the throne. As I am doing my very private “duty” Finley starts grabbing pieces of the precious toilet paper and pretends to wipe her diaper lined bottom and then proceeds to come close to the toilet, looking in to see what I was doing, and throws the paper in. “NO!” I scream out as if Finley is throwing pieces of gold down the toilet. Then Finley notices the shiny silver handle and I underestimated the fine motor skills of a 22 month old. As I was counting how many sheets of toilet paper I had left, Finley opened the door for the whole line of people to see me on my throne in all my glory. Sure, I was glowing like any princess does….just it was my face radiating red bouncing off the white toilet. I quickly shut the door and scold Finley. “Just stay still for once will you Fin?” By then, Finley ran to the roll of toilet paper and knocked it off the holder. I watched as my precious “gold” fell to the ground and like in slow motion, unrolled its way under two stalls. Finley sticks her head under the stall and gazes up at the woman who I only know as tan shoes, blue jeans lady and says, “oopsie!” Embarrassed again, I stick my hand under the stall as I brush the tan shoes, blue jeans lady’s leg. “Sorry,” I say as I grab my saving grace….the 5 squares I have left. Finley, still gazing under the stall, repeats me, “So sorwey….”
“Finley, stand up!” I shout while clutching my prized, hard-earned toilet paper in my hand. Finley bolts up and starts opening up the door again. I sigh, frustrated. I surrender. I am defeated. A 22 month old beat me in the game of privacy doin' the duty. I quickly use the rest of my toilet paper, get dressed and drag her out of the bathroom. I have surrendered that I can no longer use public restrooms with my 22 month old without being publically humiliated. As we leave the doors of Olive Garden, Steve turns to me as says, “Hey that wasn’t so bad! Where do you want to go tonight to eat?”

SIGH

I guess Sunday dinners will be at our house from now on.....