Day 533: Eating out with your baby (a cautionary tale)

Fernando and I had typically naïve and optimistic parenting philosophies before we had a child. I remember conversations about how we would tote the baby along to art galleries to foster an interest in culture, and haul her around on trips overseas to give her some perspective on her place in the world. Then she arrived, of course, and it didn’t take long for us to realize that we were lucky to survive a trip to the mall never mind a trek through sub-Saharan Africa. In my defence, though, I did take her to the art gallery once. She screamed (rather rudely, I thought) throughout my entire discussion of the Impressionist movement and then promptly vomited all over the marble floor.

When I was pregnant we were out for dinner one evening and were entirely impressed to see a couple at the restaurant ordering up a plate of sushi for their toddler. Sushi! Well, we were all over that. It was quickly decided that we would definitely be taking our kid to restaurants all the time. Curry houses, sushi bars, seafood joints, fine dining, the works. Not only would we get that quality family time together, but we would be wisely encouraging the development of both a sophisticated palate and good table manners. Fast forward 18 months and our planned culinary adventures have been downgraded to the point where we are restricted to White Spot or Boston Pizza. And even those outings require monumental effort. It just seems much more tempting to stay at home, where Maddie can scream and run about and chuck food to her little heart’s content. Were it up to me, that is exactly what we would do. But Fernando insists that we get her used to going out, bless him.

And so we found ourselves sharing a corner booth with our rather demanding dining partner once again the other night. Once the meal itself arrives things get a bit easier, it is the waiting that is the killer. She sits in the highchair for about 3 minutes before she starts getting antsy. We cycle through the entire contents of the diaper bag – snacks, juice, toys, books, games – and that buys us another 4 minutes or so of relative calm. She starts straining, grunting, yelling, getting progressively louder as she attempts to break free. We break out in a sweat, knowing that things are about to get ugly. The waitress stops by to see how things are going. “Oh, fine, thanks,” shooting a panicked glance towards the kitchen. We order a drink to dull the pain. By this time we’re bordering on causing a scene, we’re feeling the irritated glares of our fellow diners. We give in and let her out of the chair. She, sensing her opportunity, of course runs for the door, banging into unsuspecting wait staff and patrons as she goes. Fernando heads after her and they spend a few minutes blowing fish faces against the restaurant window outside while I down my glass of house white.

And then, from the kitchen – CRASH! – the unmistakable sound of a tray of dishes being dropped. Out comes our waitress, apologetic, telling us, “Sorry guys, that was yours, it’ll just be a little while longer.” What she clearly doesn’t understand is that a “little while” to her is an eternity to a toddler. And even longer to the parents who are trying to contain her.

Ah, there is nothing quite so relaxing as a quiet dinner out, no?