I can clearly recall a time when dining out was pure joy. The anticipation alone…have mercy! Me, all dolled up, perfume, tight jeans (size 10) and enough cleavage to keep his attention without straying into full-on slut territory. Hubby, sporting Levi’s (dayum, but he could fill ’em out ya’ll), boots and, if the weather was chilly, a flannel shirt. Can you say ‘cheap date’? No rush, no worries, no stress. The only pressing issue was where we’d go park after dinner. You know, to watch the stars.
Fast forward a couple of years and WHAMMO we did it. Well, to be honest, we’d done it plenty before but this time, nine months later, here comes Seth.
Now, dining out with a baby isn’t really a big thing, considering that babies do only three things: eat, sleep and poop. In any case, you’re prepared for anything no matter your location because in addition to baby, you also lug around King Kong’s handbag stuffed with diapers, wipes, several days worth of clothing (in case of leaks, spit ups or, heck, just because), diaper rash ointment—Dr. Beaudreaux Butt-Paste (for us BAD MOTHERS that don’t change baby often enough or because baby is a sensitive soul), bottles of formula (for us LAZY MOMS who don’t cotton to having Junior’s gums chomp on our girls or simply because Junior’s head is half the size of aforementioned girl and for him it’s either breathe or eat), assorted baby toys and a flask of wine (oops, wishful thinking). That’s a lot of crap to haul, ya’ll but still, we made do. At this stage, we could still have a peaceful outing because, face facts, babies don’t talk (or talk back).
Restaurant dining these days is a mix of verbal martial-arts (smack, jab, KAPOW!); church service (Please, Lord, don’t let me lose it in public ’cause I SO would not look good in a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit and road-side trash pickup is not my idea of a good time); and twelve step program (Hi, my name is Bat-shit Crazy Momma and it’s been 3.5 seconds since my last “Don’t make me take you to the restroom ’cause you are so gonna get it, sister” speech). All in all, an experience not anywhere near as relaxing as, say, a glass of wine and a Xanax.
I’m already plotting my revenge, glass of wine in hand. Each jewel, nugget and crumb of child-dispensed wisdom as it relates to all things kid and kid-raising is being carefully documented and filed away for that perfect Golden Years moment when I can unload them like bullets from an Uzi. ‘Why, yes, baby, go ahead and let the doggy lick your mouth. That smell? Oh, it’s just a little litter box snack. Bless his heart, he gets awful hungry this time of day. What’s that, Princess? Of course, your Mama won’t mind if you have a venti, double-caff, caramel mochachino. You know she wouldn’t want to deny you anything, Hunnybuns!’
I am so gettin’ the warm fuzzies just thinking about it…or maybe it’s the wine.