- Thanksgiving is a day when I get up early, before the rest of the family, in anticipation of the morning’s work to prepare tasty dishes for everyone’s palate pleasures. I don’t make anything the night before. This would go against my procrastinator personality, and could possibly upset the balance that is my “rush to get everything done at the last minute” little universe. This morning as I stood before the fire place, sipping my coffee, enjoying so many warm things on a cold morning, I was thankful for the peace and quiet. It was so still and so serene. As I set about my morning I was surprised to discover an odd feeling upon me. Something felt strangely out of place, and I quickly realized it was the lack of noise. The silence was deafening, as I had become unaccustomed to it. I was thankful once more, but this time I was thankful that the silence in my life was only transient, and that soon the nothingness would be filled with beautiful, chaotic noise. Until then, I turned on the radio and was thankful I wasn’t wiping someone’s butt at the moment, not right then anyway.
- As I went about my preparations for thanksgiving deliciousness, I wondered why I had thought it would be a good idea to leave a sink full of dishes and remnants of last night’s dinner in the pans to effectively solidify there. It must have been my way of reminding myself to be thankful for deciding to install a dishwasher when we moved here. I started with the dessert since it would need to chill for a few hours. Thanksgiving is a time for someone like myself to pretend I bake frequently instead of just buying cookies and pastries from Walmart Deli. It allows me to use ingredients that only, if ever, make there way into my home for a special holiday occasion. This was the case when I opened a can of condensed milk, something I haven’t seen since making homemade ice cream with my mom as a kid. I obviously had no memory of the can’s contents since they frightened me upon first viewing them. If I opened the milk carton to pour into my cereal and the 2% resembled this thick Elmer’s glue in the Eagle can, I would throw it out. (Notice I didn’t say pour down the sink. Much too thick.) Laugh if you must, but I never professed to be Betty Crocker. I only play her part on Thanksgiving and sometimes Christmas. Pinterest, that wench, she’s always encouraging me to try something new. This time of year allows me to learn new things like that. Condensed milk resembles mucous. Maraschino cherries stain your fingers. What the heck does it mean to “fold” an ingredient in? I don’t fold anything. Who has time for that? Note to self: cool whip does not come out of the de-wrinkle cycle of the dryer as well as a pair of well worn khakis. It really is better to just go on and fold it or whatever. Thanksgiving is a day I realize I only have one large mixing bowl and one large pot. This makes cooking several dishes in a timely manner near impossible, and makes me almost reconsider my procrastinator ways. Almost. I am quite certain I will forget my angst by Turkey Day next year.
- Thanksgiving is a time to practice your organization and storage skills, packing many different sized casserole bowls and pans into your trunk, cushioning them in a manner that will hopefully prevent spillage of cheese sauce onto your vehicle upholstery. Thanksgiving is a day that makes you thankful for how hard it is every other day of the year to get your kids out of the house. You are eternally grateful for those days when held in comparison to this day. Diaper bags and sippy cups, not so bad. Diaper bags, sippy cups, pies, traveling booster seats, waterproof bibs, cameras, pot holders with your ceramic Paula Deen pans (and that’s just the stuff you forgot and had to turn around and get), much worse. Thanksgiving is a time when you get together with extended family to consume mass quantities of carbohydrate-loaded delicacies. It’s a day I wear my new pair of jeans and sweater to look half-way descent for a change, but realize in the car that there’s a huge, washed-in stain on the breast of the sweater (breast milk no doubt, stains like a dickens), then laugh knowing no one expects any less. Somehow I’m thankful my children allow me an excuse to look haggard and not be so serious about my appearance. As we all sit around the table I am amazed by the riot of small children running about, and am tickled to realize that a couple came from my own uterus. It’s a time to be thankful for the next generation being raised up among us. I hold my tea to keep the tiny horde from knocking it over, and nervously glance at my watch timing how long it will take until they knock a glass figurine over, and secretly hope it’s not one of my children to blame, this time at least. As I glance at my signs of battle, red fingers, with the sacrifice of cherries for the pie on their tips, I realize the jeans were a bad idea feeling them press against my generous mommy tummy. It’s a time to be thankful for fleece, elastic waistband pajamas beckoning me home. Thanksgiving is a time when you realize what makes you happy and complete. As I drive past the local Walmart on my way back home I gawk at the crowd outside. I’m thankful I am in my warm car and not in a shopping frenzy. I glance in the rear view and see big eyes looking back at me, hearing the cooing, happy words trying to form. My belly is full. My heart is full. Once home, I realize the sink is still full, but that is fine too. My life is as overflowing as the sink, and it only serves to remind me of such. I pop a few antacids, and hold my babies, watching my man as he unloads the van, a hefty endeavor indeed.
That is all 🙂
3 Facts for the Day (The Baby Chronicles)
- The expressions that appear on a baby’s face are so varied and multifaceted that I’ve often wondered of my own infant, what is she thinking? My questions are finally being answered as I delve deeper into her world. The post that follows contains excerpts from a diary I found stuffed under the crib mattress (along with half a peanut butter sandwich and my missing nail file).
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Dear Diary,
I can’t believe I am even capable to make this entry, for I am currently intoxicated by the glow of twinkling, colored lights. The Parentals have surprised me by taking one of those green things from outside and have placed it in our living room. As if that weren’t enough, then they decided to decorate it with glittery toys for my amusement. The cruel irony is their insistence on yelling “No” each time I attempt to show my appreciation by ripping a toy free. Their torture tactics sometimes make me wonder if they brought me into this world for their own sadistic pleasures. I have decided that tonight, while they are engrossed with their tiny, handheld light boxes, I shall liberate the shiny, red glass ball that they have assumed is out of my reach. I shall see if it tastes as beautiful as it appears.
Dear Diary,
I have eagerly anticipated when I could break away from snuggles with The Mommy (or as I call her affectionately, Milk) to tell you of my miraculous discovery. Imagine my delight this morning when in my exploration under the table I discovered something magical. It seems that under The Mean One’s booster seat there is a hidden treasure of many types of yum-yums. I have not figured out why she places them there, and I was honestly a little hesitant to take my first bite for fear that I would fall right into The Mean One’s trap of death by poisoning. (She wants The Mommy all to herself!) But alas, I am only human, and due to my weakness for half-melted animal crackers covered in hair, I tasted of the bounty. I plan to return after this entry and sample the dried gummy bear next. I know it will be all I have dreamed it to be.
Dear Diary,
The Mommy continues to taunt me with shiny pull-strings that she puts in her ears. Every day. Every day she puts a new, exciting, different dangly thing on her ear, yet every day she tells me “No” I can’t play with it! I have decided I do not like this “No” word. Its evil can only compare to the other bad word, “Nap.” I can almost see her laughing on the inside, celebrating my disappointment in not being able to pull the pretty play-thing from her ear. I cannot understand why she insists on denying me even such a small pleasure as that. Her behavior, and that of The Daddy continue to vex me. If it were not for The Milk, I might be more cross. Also, when she screams in pain after I jerk on the ear bobber, I feel a small dose of retribution that calms my anger.
Dear Diary,
She did it again. The Mommy tried to put me to sleep. She is like a broken record, always trying to subject me to The Nap. My ancestors would be proud for today I fought a valiant fight on the battleground of the rocker. She is cunning, no doubt, enlisting the help of her Milk Makers to lull me to the icy dreamland. At one point I know we both thought I would succumb, but I can proudly tell you my friend that I did not. Now I must get to work removing the cloth bags they call socks so I may inspect my toes. You never can be sure if one has gone missing…
Dear Diary,
I need your help. I am so tired. Exhausted. I fear I will be unable to keep my eyes from closing. I have tried screaming, making strange noises with my tongue, and banging my head, but it seems all in vain. I am starting to wonder what that woman, The Mommy, put in my cereal, what sedative is dragging me into slumber. I must know! Sleepy. I must cry. No, she will rock me if I cry! If I sleep, if I surrender to The Nap, I fear the things I may miss. The magical cartoon people in the picture box may sing my favorite song while I am gone. I will try and eat the Qtip I found in the bathroom trash. I think this will help.
Dear Diary,
I am determined to figure out what the fascination is with the seat in the bathroom. Everyone seems to want to go and sit on it. It also appears to be the only place The Parentals attempt to be by themselves. What happens when they shut the door?! The suspense is killing me. They ignore my plea to enter even as I curl my little fingers under the door in a begging gesture. I am once again reminded of their cruel treatment to me, denying me the joy I seek. Last night while The Mommy was distracted by antics of The Mean One, I attempted further exploration. I successfully lifted the lid of this magical seat half expecting to find some reward of cheese puff snacks or at least some of those yogurt bites I like, but alas, only a bowl of water awaited me. Did I probe further you ask? Of course. Don’t be daft. Despite possible dangers lurking within the porcelain well I promptly stuck my hand inside and gave it a little splash. Then naturally I tasted it. Curses. It was simply water inside. What is their fascination?! Do they fill it with juice after they force me into The Nap? I shall ponder this conundrum. I will not rest until the mystery is solved, no matter the tactics Ole Milk Bags tries.
Dear Diary,
I have found a kindred spirit amongst all the confusion of this strange world. I have found true understanding and empathy in my sister. No, I’m not speaking of The Mean One. I keep one eye open at all times around that one lest she try to cuddle my face with a stuffed animal a little too aggressively. She is a thorn in my side, her main mission to rob me of space on The Mommy’s lap. No, I have found my true sister to be the furry one outside. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she too is denied pleasure. While I don’t sleep outside in a little house as she is forced to do, I’ve told you of the numerous cruel tortures I endure daily. We seem to understand each other in a way The Parentals will never get, as if our shared mistreatment in life has forged a bond no sword can sever. Her grin and eagerly moving tail let me know she places me above all others before her slobbery kiss is even bestowed upon my face. (Finally someone who kisses with an open mouth and drool like myself!) I point outside requesting of The Mommy to allow a visit to my furry sibling, but she pretends she cannot understand my coos. Is The Furry One the only family member who understands me?! Her deep, sad eyes say yes. She has also shared with me that the liquid in the bathroom seat is indeed divine. I shall try another taste tonight…
- While the writing is my own, I would like to give creative credit for this post to an idea/thought my sister-in-law gave me yesterday. She is a new mom to a newborn baby girl. I think she should check under her own infant’s crib mattress just in case.
That is all 🙂
3 Facts for the Day (The Kingdom Rule Edition)
- The majority of my time in life right now is spent in an alternate universe where times speeds by with lightening quickness, sleep is hard to come by, and someone always needs to be held or fed. It’s a place without reason, where come-a-parts or hissy fits are the norm. In this land lost in time, where adult conversation is a rarity, obtained only briefly by phone, but usually halted by tiny people vying for your attention, and risking life and limb to attain it, tears can fall quickly and easily, but conversely they can also be replaced in a mere moment by lunatic laughter over a well-placed, comedic, yet absurdly embarrassing antic. The queen of this planet of impressionable minds is none other than myself, but my monarchy is often challenged by a rioting three year old who desires to overthrow the crown. She has a mindset of how the kingdom should be run, and not surprisingly, her system would serve to benefit herself above all others. This is the mindset of a three year old. Me, me, me.
- Chloe, the three year old in question, begins her struggle for power the moment her eyes open. As she pads into the living room, not being the first to wake, she is confronted with her baby sister taking up residence in her favored spot, my lap. She will come quickly to my side, and then the epic battle for my affections will commence. The tiny one (little sister), will hold her own as best as she is able, and I passively endure a horde of small people crawling all over my person, shoving each other from the warmest section of my lap. Eventually the craving of coffee will lure me to the kitchen, kicking off packs of snipping children as I attempt to leave the couch and the den of cartoon lunacy in search of caffeine. The mighty three year old sees this as her chance to place requests for gifts of milk and breakfast cereals, a difficult ordeal before coffee goodness is consumed and effectively lubricates the joints and mind of mommy. Not wishing to be outdone, a petite crawler will escape the toy jungle in search of her mommy’s milk. She is like a tiny lion on the hunt, with her only thought being food, and obtaining it at any cost.
- Even after coffee, the remainder of the day in this strange world of tiny vampires is simply a repeat of itself, like a twisted version of the movie Groundhog Day. The baby needs rocking, and as she drains all fluid, energy, and negative calories from the queen, the door keeps opening, and a little, blond head appears. She’s naked, bringing to mind the natural question, where did her clothes go?! She smiles sweetly, but the ulterior motives of waking the sleeping babe practically drip from her asinine requests for snacks and channel changing on the television. She is probably smiling so big with the sweet memories of well placed kicks to the baby hours earlier, spurred forth by jealous spats over previously discarded toys given importance once coveted by another. Naps, lunch, play, laundry, snacks, play, nap, dishes (simply so there can be something to place the next meal upon), play, hugs, “I love you’s” (which somehow she magically places to make it all okay), snacks, milk, milk, milk. As she tugs at my garment, I look down, and she claims, “You’re my best friend Mommy!” I fight the urge to cry (hormones are never the same, are they?!), and feel happiness over this revelation, especially after the sulking trip to her chambers, shambling there to recluse in dramatic sadness after correction was given for pushing her sister in the face, a punishment she doled out for touching the precious iPad. We dance in the kitchen, all three ladies of the castle, balancing on our toes, and spinning to the music, soaking in smiles and tinkling, baby laughter. Punishments are quick and often, correction to offset the actions of a jealous child, but the celebration and giggles always return. The clock will soon chime, signaling baths and bedtime approaching, an end to another day swooping in before it’s expected. The quickness of the hours baffles me, reminding me that hours add together into days. Watching as clothes and shoes are outgrown, as crawling becomes walking, words become sentences, and milestones flash by in a blur, I’m confronted with the passing years in this strange, but beautiful land, this place where little people indeed rule in the courts of my heart.
That is all 🙂
3 Facts for the Day (Insufficient Funds; Good Mood Overdrawn)
- She’s been training for a couple of years now, so it’s only natural that my three year old is finally coming into her own, and really starting to excel at completely trashing my living room, or any room in the house for that matter, especially if I just finished picking up. I suppose she’s like a budding Picasso, and a bare floor resembles a blank canvas to her artistically destructive eye. Asking her to pick up her own mess is the absolute worst torture I can dish out on that child. Her shoulders will sag inward while her chin crashes into her chest, and the most pitiful sigh issues from her tiny peasant, slave child mouth. Today after we played her favorite game of “let me undo what mom just did,” I insisted she clean up the existing mess that completely painted my living room rug with a coat of discarded toys prior to granting her request to pull baby furniture out of the nursery (because playing with her own toys just isn’t as much fun). She attempted the task of cleaning with the reward of making future messes dancing in her head. At one point I heard her groan in angered exasperation. I peeked into the room and her pants were around her thighs while her arms were full of stuffed puppies. “My pants keep falling down! I can’t do it!” I wanted to laugh out loud at her miniature temper tantrum over saggy pants and the exhausting chore of moving a toy from point A to point B (approximately two feet).
- Well, instead of laughing I filed it away. I do that a lot. I see my child do something ridiculous and then I realize, she comes by it naturally. I’ve been on the border of throwing my toys in the air and screaming in frustration most of the day. My day started okay, but for me it seems like a single event can alter the coarse of my perfectly pleasant day in record time. I don’t like that fact, nor do I condone it, but I really have trouble changing it. My day took a detour to Sucksville when I logged onto my bank account. Payday is tomorrow, but I needed milk and other essentials today. I quickly entered my password to see just how much I could spend. I was drying my hair at the time (yes, I frequently multi-task) and almost dropped my hair dryer in the sink when I saw my balance. It was negative! How did that happen?! It seems that your normally put together to the fraction of a cent, financial guru, queen of the checkbook woman got it wrong. In my haste and distraction I apparently forgot to log a large check, one that I’m not accustomed to writing, one that I wrote over two weeks ago, and that was finally cashed yesterday. I have never done this in my twenty years of having a checking account. I almost felt like a man from the bank was likely waiting at my front door ready to slap me into shackles and throw me in the vault along with my useless, bounced check, where we could ponder the error of our ways via overdraft fees.
- I immediately texted my husband. When I want to feel stupid and angry at myself, the poor man usually has to listen. Naturally he sent reassuring texts with cute, kissie-faced emoticons telling me it was no big deal. He even tried sending adult content, suggestive texts to make me giggle (which they did), but I had convinced myself I was a moron. Since I couldn’t stop there, I also began to dwell on finances period (I still needed that milk), which is never really an uplifting experience. I followed up by feeling sorry for myself, thinking, Why are we always broke? I hate being poor! Never mind the fact that we are far from poor and actually pretty blessed as far as hundred-aires (aka lower, middle class) goes. I was on a roll, and I wouldn’t stop until I was sufficiently in a bad mood, and had ruined my entire day with my negative attitude. I’m not sure why I do that, why I allow one bad apple to ruin my entire barrel. But I do. I found myself praying for God to help change my attitude (which is a good thing I think), and also asking forgiveness for such a poor one at that (which is probably also a pretty good idea), but then I also realized something. Some days are just going to be bad. Some days something bad is going to happen. It’s going to really suck on days like that. I may not can fix it or change it, but I can keep going. Once I told myself it was okay to feel bad, I actually felt better. I can not fall victim to giving up. Just because my attitude was poor today doesn’t reflect what it will be tomorrow. I can start new. I found the time to wash my sheets tonight, and similarly I can lay my mind down fresh when I go to bed, pray for God to clean it, and wake up ready for another day. Even if my arms get full and my pants fall around my ankles, I will not say “I can’t do it,” because I can, and I will. I have to. There’s new beautiful messes waiting to be made. Because really that’s where the fun is at. I won’t beat myself too hard for the overdraft, or even for my ensuing mood. It’s like my husband said, “It’s over. It’s done with, and you can’t change it, so move on.”
Lamentations 3:22-23
22 Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
And I’ll take that as my own. You can too.
That is all 🙂
3 Facts for the Day (Locating Your Joy Edition)
- I have this terrible habit of misplacing things. I will pick up the nail clippers, with it completely in my head that I’m finally going to trim my nails now that I have a minute. Then I think, “Well, I’ll need the file too. Can’t have jagged edges.” I set off in search of my nail file. “I know it’s in this kitchen somewhere!” (Isn’t that where everyone keeps their nail file?) While in the kitchen, I see the creamer is still out on the counter. I pick up the bottle to place it in the refrigerator. While the refrigerator is open, I notice the cooler bag of my breast milk on the top shelf. Realizing I need to bag it up and freeze it before I forget again, I grab the cooler pack quickly. Not wanting to leave the dirty bottles to have remnants of milk dry inside, I decide to put them in the dishwasher immediately. When I open the dishwasher, I notice it’s full of clean dishes. I have to empty it before I can put the dirty bottles in there. So I put dishes away. Now that the dishwasher is empty, I might as well finish cleaning the kitchen. If I do it now, I won’t have to later. Halfway through rinsing plates, the baby wakes from her nap and starts to cry. I dry off my hands, and rush off to scoop her from her crib before her cries wake her two year old sister from her own nap. The baby is hungry, and I settle into the rocker to feed her. After she’s fed, I realize I better start thawing chicken for dinner. So glad I already cleaned out the sink! The two year old enters the room, and I decide to go ahead and fix her dinner. While she eats, I cut some potatoes to put in the oven. After I put the seasoned and foiled potato cubes in the oven, I figure I better give the two year old her bath. I hate waiting to the last minute, plus she’s got macaroni all over her face. I go ahead and bathe the baby too. Just as I’m putting pajamas on the kiddos, and putting the completed dinner on “warm,” my husband walks in the door. After too brief of a visit, the baby starts to whine and rub her eyes. It’s bedtime. As I rock my bundle to sleep, I stroke her little head. As I finger her tiny curl, I notice my finger nails. I really need to trim them! But where in the world are the nail clippers?!
- Sometimes the day can get so hectic, it’s insane. In the middle of all the busy chaos, you lose something. As you hustle and bustle, back and forth, here and there, you misplace your joy. You can’t see it anywhere. All you see is a huge “to-do” list that has yet to have a single thing crossed off of it. You don’t have peace, you have frantic tasks to complete. You don’t see joy, you see discontentment. You almost find your joy when you finally get that disgusting floor mopped, but then the crawling baby throw-ups and decides to finger paint with it, on your clean floor. Sometimes you can’t find your joy because your life in no way resembles what it once was. Once meticulous about everything, you watch in horror as the baby pulls out strictly alphabetized DVDs off the shelf, upsetting the ABC order. In the back of your mind, you may realize a beautifully categorized home isn’t true joy anyway. Simple annoyances may steal your joy into hiding. Like, why does egg always stick to the pan after being washed, like the dishwasher only cements it into place? Even present day conveniences seem intent on sneaking away with your joy. Why do they jump on the bed when it’s made? Why does the husband seem determined to squirrel away balled up, dirty socks throughout the house? Why does the phone ring when babies sleep?
- I’m of the opinion that we can find our joy. It’s there to be found. It’s simply a matter of perception. How do you see the chaos, turmoil, or busyness that works so hard to shield your joy from your sight? I think we can make a pledge to find our joy, to see it shine through every situation. Earlier today, the two year old wanted to swim, but I wouldn’t let her. I couldn’t watch her at the time, and told her to play in the sprinkler instead. She commented, later, about the sprinkler, “I don’t like it, but when I’m in it, I love it!” The sprinkler wasn’t her first choice, she wasn’t even particularly fond of it, but loved it in the midst of the spray. Do you hate your job? Sometimes people will say, “at least you have a job!” That comment may not always bring you the joy. Instead, look at it this way. God has you there for a reason right now. I once was forced to take a 4 hour break during the day at work (in the restaurant business) because it was slow. I had a bill due and really wanted my hours. I wasn’t happy, but spent my break at a park by the river. While there, I came across a girl and struck up a conversation after the Lord’s urging. It so happens that she was intent on jumping over a rail onto the rocks below, along the river that day. I came along right when she needed someone to talk to. You never know when or where God can use you. But He can’t use you if you’re too busy grumbling. Find your joy as you wait on His leading. See each situation as the joy it truly is. When you’re trudging through the house with clothes in your hand to put on your child after they peed on the first set, and you find them outside standing on a upside down tricycle, with a plastic golf club in their hand, naked as the day they were born, smile. That’s joy in disguise. When there’s a cup of water spilled on the floor, wipe it up, and you can feel accomplished saying you mopped today. That’s joy in hiding. Don’t let the enemy steal your joy. Hold it tightly, and don’t let it out of your sight. A wonderful thing happens as you view each moment with joy. You realize that it truly is joyful, even the moments you didn’t think you could count as such.
James 1:2-4
Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.
So, if you can get past the rush, the schedules, the frustrations, the inconveniences, the disappointments, and find your joy, you won’t regret it. As you view your life with joy and see the gifts, you will discover you are indeed blessed, and open the floodgates for more of Him.
And, if you were wondering, the nail clippers were in the refrigerator beside the creamer.
That is all 🙂
3 Facts for the Day
- It’s amazing to me how I can be such a level-headed, analytical woman at times, but still have moments where I absolutely loose my mind. That has to be the only explanation for why I would knowingly submit myself to torture. I’m sure I was hit by a moment of weakness. It was, after all, almost four in the afternoon, and my subsistence for the day had consisted of the leftover egg white from the baby’s yolk breakfast, and later a handful of pretzels. It was a moment of caloric weakness. I was sitting at the red light waiting to make a left hand turn. I glanced over to my left and was confronted with the most beautiful of edible sights. Mexican food. Oh Lord help me! Thoughts of salsa, cheese dip, and fajita goodness danced in my head, similarly to the way the little children dreamt of sugarplums on Christmas Eve. Our destination was currently pointed towards the sno-cone place. While I enjoy a sugary, frozen treat as much as the next gal, at the time, I could not imagine how flavored ice could compete with sizzling meat. I called back to my partner in pre-dinner consumption crime, the two year old. (I knew she was excited for some icee yumyums, so I had to be stealth). “Hey Chloe.” I called sweetly. “How’s about we go sit down in a restaurant instead of getting a sno-cone?” My goal was to make it sound adventurously exciting, and therefore easily defeat the aforementioned flavored ice in favor of a taco in my belly. Being the optimistic, overachieving child I adore, Chloe responded, “I got an idea Mom. Let’s go to the restaurant and then go get a sno-cone.” I love that brilliant darling!
- By the time we decided we would sidetrack for a food fiesta, I had already been forced into my left turn taking me to a cold, frozen, minimally nutrient rich, cousin of a popsicle. I would not be denied my quest for spicy splendor that easily! In true stunt driver fashion (no, not really), I performed a possibly illegal u-turn (pretty sure it was illegal). While keeping my wits enough to insure the safety of my tiny charges, I whipped through the traffic with Mexican manic thoughts abounding. I can only blame my desire for a bountiful burrito to drive me to make such an erroneous decision. You see, I don’t usually eat out with just the girls. I usually have the husband along if we go out to eat in a restaurant. As a side note, McDonald’s does not count as eating out at a restaurant. The staff there undergoes special training in dealing with people under the age of seven. I even suspect that they add mild sedatives to the chicken nuggets to keep the children from running amuck and strewing napkins and Happy Meal toys in their wake. Anyway, when I do occasionally visit an adult establishment for food consumption beyond that of a burger, I typically go with another adult. I’ve naively thought all this time that I went with another responsible adult for the sheer joy of conversation beyond the topics of “peepee and poop”. I now realize I’ve been using my company as an unpaid nanny service. It somehow seems to go so much smoother when another set of hands is available to carry bags, be it diaper or doggie, corral spastic runners before they bolt into traffic, or back into the kitchen if you don’t pay attention, catch toppling drinks, and so much more!
- Upon entering the restaurant, Chloe immediately became excited over the plethora of candy machine choices featured in the lobby. Her tone rose and her speed of speech intensified. It was like by some strange form of osmosis, the sugar from each candy she viewed was assaulting her bloodstream all at once. Only my regrettable promise of candy after dinner was able to separate her from the line-up of quarter treats. I ushered us to a booth, and scanned the wall for a high chair. Finding one complete with a functioning strap is the key. Sometimes you luck upon one complete with a seatbelt, but once at your table, discover the buckle has been effectively chewed off by the wild animal it held before yours, or the connection is so caked with masticated food that it no longer can be secured. God was trying to throw me a bone, and I was able to indeed find a seat that I didn’t fear would be a physical danger or communicable disease threat to my baby. The two year old started right away playing her favorite game of musical seating. I’m gonna sit by myself. No, wait. I’m gonna sit by you. No, wait. I’m gonna sit here. This particular food spot offered a strangely wide window ledge by our table. To Chloe, this simply meant another place to try and sit. She ended up, to my absolute joy (insert sarcasm here), finding the leftover meal pieces of the little person that came before her. She handed them to me for inspection, because I never grow tired of handling other people’s chewed food. (Do I have to tell you to insert sarcasm here?) The meal consisted of many joyful experiences to include: trying to stop Chloe from killing the rainforest with all the destroyed paper product she amassed pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser, attempting to keep up with the supply and demand of fruit puffs I fed into the baby’s open, bird mouth while still trying to fit in my own bites of entree, managing to restrain curious baby fingers from grabbing steaming plates or exploring in my refried beans, and explaining repeatedly to Chloe that she had to eat more than two bites of her $5 kid’s meal if she wanted any of the much anticipated candy. The waiter politely smiled sweetly at my motley crew and would pat the baby’s head each time he came by to ask if I needed anything (His eyes seemed to betray him. They silently screamed, “Please go woman, and take your offspring before any more food falls upon my floor!”) In between instructing Chloe to stop playing with her cup of water (I mean, really, why do they serve kids a styrofoam cup? They gotta know that straw is like a sword just waiting to slice through its environmentally unfriendly enemy), I made the server’s day by requesting the check and a to-go box (for the 80% of Chloe’s remaining meal). When I turned back to Chloe, she was pulling out more napkins. This time, though, it was to mop up the river of ice water that had fallen victim to the straw of doom, and poured out of its wounded styrofoam side directly into our awaiting seat that was conveniently able to hold water with its concave structure, and effectively soak our pants. After I slaughtered another forest to catch the spill, I turned up to catch my darling baby in action. She had puked up all those puffs, mixed with water, onto the table. She was painting the mixture across the surface with her hands and forearms, and seemed very proud of the masterpiece she had achieved thus far. I gathered my brood, heading for the cashier. As Chloe asked about the candy, I broke the news to her that I did not have any quarters. I’m certain the waiter’s family back in Mexico could hear Chloe’s anguished cries over a sweet treat envisioned, but never brought to reality. It seems those brilliant Hispanics foresaw such a dilemma. They packed their register with multiple canisters full of enticing candies, all available for purchase with your debit card! This last chance of sugar was an effective salve for Chloe’s pain. (Yes, I am a sucker, but I also promised, and try to keep my word). As we packed up in the van, and I realized it was baby nap time with a Walmart trip still to be completed, I wondered if my little tryst had been worth it. It almost seemed like more of a hassle than an enjoyment. I vowed to rethink such an endeavor in the future. I know, though, that when the hunger pains and temptation of enchanting enchiladas again strike, I will once again charge blindly into the land of eating out with kids.
That is all 🙂
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