A few weeks ago, Jeff and I went out to a fancy dinner. The restaurant was a nice, new American type place complete with those cute little amuse-bouches and knife things that clean the table between courses.
After we’d been seated for a few minutes, a couple walked in with a young child, probably just over a year. Now, much as I try and be supportive of parents with young kids, there are just some places I don’t want to be seeing them. An over-priced restaurant where I go to escape my children tops the list. Sure, she was cute, but I better not hear a single whine, I thought, as I tried to suppress a scowl.
As the meal went on, my annoyance over them bringing the child to dinner was replaced with outrage that the child was behaving like… a perfect angel. Not that I wanted my meal ruined by a screaming child refusing to eat her asparagus, but that was preferable to the child who made mine seem like wild beasts in comparison. Instead of rolling my eyes at them and glaring at the ruby-red glad girl, I wondered what they’d done to create such a perfectly behaved specimen. The only time I ever would have been able to take my children out to nice dinners is when they were sleeping in their infant carriers. This one was actually eating chicken and brussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts, for crying out loud!*
We didn’t hear a single peep all through dinner and passed their table on the way out. So, like any other normal mother, I may have just knocked her chair over to give her something to cry about. You know, just to see if she would.
Well, not really, but I wanted to. So, now I’m abusive to boot. See what happens when you take children to fancy restaurants? Just don’t do it.
* I had no idea that the vegetable was actually “Brussels sprouts.” I’ve been saying “Brussel sprouts” my whole life. The things you learn from spell check. Incidentally, I do like brussels sprouts, especially roasted with some olive oil and salt. But, I digress.
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