Recently, I've added another event to my 'Things I Will Never Do With My Two-Year-Old Again' list. I took my daughter, Mia, and my son Bram, who is going on 6 months, to...a restaurant.
I can hear you crying outloud: 'A restaurant?! What were you thinking?!' Let me assure you, it was a purely impulsive decision, without any forethought or consideration of the inevitably disastrous consequences. I guess all moms have to experience a catastrophe of this calibre if they intend to survive the next sixteen or so years of their childrens' upbringing...
I had spent the day in Gent with my cousin and her family, with every intention of having a pleasant visit and enduring as few tantrums as possible. It was the first time I was in the city with both kids stowed away in the double buggy, which I affectionately refer to as 'Bertha', the name my family endearingly calls anything which is monstrously huge and virtually impossible to maneuver. The day started out wonderfully, the kids (four of them, aged three and under) got along great, ate their lunch, sat in the buggy when we wanted them to and let us change their diapers when they started to draw flies. All was harmony.
But before too long, the day became just that - too long. Mia, my two-year-old daughter, is currently undergoing the 'Terrible Twos' stage. Or, as I prefer to call it, the 'Traumatic Twos', mostly the 'Intolerable Twos', sometimes even the 'Tsunami Twos'. She can be happy as a flea, all giggles and pure joy, then something will happen inside her little toddler mind that tranforms her into this high-maintenence Diva whose screams can be heard in neighbouring countries and has the patience level of a...well, of a two-year-old! Mia has no concept of the fact that goods in a shop are in fact not for removing from the shelves and running out the door with, setting off security alarms in the process. Nor are chairs on a terrace hers to knock over and dance around at her every whim. When I try to inform her of the reality of the situation, her reaction is usually one of surprise, horror and mayhem, almost always in that order. Followed by the cliché falling to the ground, raising her screams to a pitch just under the one that only dogs can pick up, and utilizing every limb to attract the attention of, and hopefully kick, as many passersby as possible.
After a couple of these tantrums took place, I was able to distract and conquer the Diva, but was beginning to face the realization that it was time to go home. That was when we met up with my cousin's friends, two lovely couples from Amsterdam who were in Gent for a very romantic, culinary weekend...'sans' kids. Those poor, poor people. In retrospect, they should've fled in the other direction as soon as they saw us coming towards them. One of them invited me, and my children, to join them all for dinner. Maybe it was my uncanny ability to ignore reason, maybe the sun had gone to my head. I don't know why, but I accepted. A part of me seemed convinced that an over-crowded restaurant with tables just teeming with breakable dishes and sharp cutlery was just the place for Mia to settle down and enjoy a nice meal with friends and family. If only I had taken a step back to see how utterly delusional I was.
Why we thought we could just walk into any given restaurant that would actually be glad to give a table to seven exhausted, famished and slightly smelly adults and four screaming children is still a mystery. Not only was it dinnertime, the place was also crawling with tourists since it was the peak of the high season and we were smack in the center of a very hip, very bustling city. Finally, after roaming around for another hour, we managed to locate a 'child-friendly' restaurant that would take us. We managed to steer 'Bertha' through the obstacle course of tables without running over too many peoples' toes and were seated at a long glass-top table which was designed for decapitating children instead of seating them. But we didn't complain. We quickly ordered and hoped the food would arrive before the natives became restless again.
The waitress brought Mia some pencils and paper and all the kids actually seemed happy and occupied...for all of three minutes. That was when the real horror set in. No matter which favourite toy or jar of yummiest food was presented, nothing would do. Mia didn't want to sit, she didn't want to stand, she didn't want to draw, she didn't want a drink, she just didn't want to. Period. The room was slowly filling with guests who would be seated, then within minutes ask to be re-seated. Mia was putting on the show of her life and it looked like wasn't leaving without a standing ovation.
Throughout the day, my son Bram, God bless him, had actually managed to sleep through even the most heinous of Mia's outbursts, but now that he was awake and hungry as well, he decided to get in on the 'Let's Make Mommy Go Coo-Coo' game. Seeing as I wasn't prepared for dinner, I didn't have the right food for him with me, a mistake I now rectify by never leaving the house without enough food to feed him and enough children to fill a small daycare center. Bram was little, he was hungry, and he just wasn't going to take it anymore. Both he and Mia were screaming in unison, performing wild synchronized arm-flailing and developing the exact same purple hue on their tear-stained faces.
That was when the waitress approached us and asked my cousin and I if we would move to another part of the restaurant, a private room. We looked at each other, then eyed the table which was strewn with toys, stuffed animals, jars of food, plastic spoons, bibs, drawing materials and various other essential items that would have to move with us. Apparently, the guests had been complaining about us; more specifically, our offspring's volume level and tendency to move around outside of our designated area. One particular couple even complained because they were out together for the first time without their children, and the fact that they were seated near ours was so confrontational that they actually lost their appetites. My cousin wondered outloud if the waitress expected us to eat at McDonald's til our kids turn five, but she wisely ignored the comment.
Accompanied with much upheaval and growling of stomachs, we managed to move our party, and 'Bertha', into the private room. I wondered why we hadn't been seated there in the first place, since it was so obviously more appropriate for us, but quickly dismissed the thought. We took shifts bringing the kids outside for fresh air as we waited for our food, and with every minute the hard reality began to hit me that by the time the food actually arrived, there was no way Mia would be at all interested in eating it. She was still very much engulfed in the 'crying til my eyes hopefully pop out' zone. And, indeed, when the chicken-and-french-fries kiddie combination platter was set on the table, Mia took one look at it, lurched away, shook her head and engaged in a whole new screaming fit. I tried to show her that the food wasn't actually poison by eating a few fries myself, but nothing could convince her. I decided to take her outside myself and get a little fresh air as well, hoping that would somehow calm her down.
Upon exiting the restaurant into the warm summer evening, Mia proceeded to wrench herself away from me and run in a hollering frenzy in the direction of the canal, on which the restaurant was situated. I started hobbling after her as she bolted towards the water, now and then sneaking a devlish look back at me to make sure I was following her. Fortunately my cousin, who is nimbler than a wood nimf, managed to catch up to her before she very innocently sat down a few meters before the edge of the canal. The game had now evolved from 'Let's Make Mommy go Coo-Coo' to 'Let's See How Many Near Heart-Attacks I Can Give Mommy in the Expanse of a Few Minutes'.
Kicking and screaming, I lugged Mia back inside and tried in vain to feed her some chicken. Bram was content, as long as he stayed on my lap, but Mia was not, as long as he did. I managed to ration what was left in his jar of mixed veggies, but we were still waiting for our main courses and the lack of food for him was beginning to worry me. Feeding him bits of my tournedo and potatoes simply wasn't an option.
Finally, to everyone's relief, the food arrived. I couldn't wait to 'eat it and beat it', but when I took a bit of my steak, it was cold. I considered eating it the way it was, but I just couldn't chew on meat which was cooler than the surface of the table. Mine wasn't the only dish served cold either, the sour look on everyone's face as they took their first bite confirmed it. When the waitress came to ask if everything was all right, we sent everything back. My cousin had taken Mia outside again so I could eat in peace, but there was a constant worry on my mind that she was waking the dead with her screams outside. Our private room had a window to the kitchen, which we thought was pretty neat at first. Now, as we saw with our own eyes how the chef reacted as all our dishes came back, I can only say that if I was able to lip-read in French, I probably would've shielded my eyes.
When the food re-arrived, this time warm, I scarfed it down, grabbed 'Bertha' and made my exit as quickly as possible. I apologized profusely to my cousin's friends, who looked as weary as I did, as they had most likely been reliving the worst moments of their childrens' tantrums throughout the evening. Bram protested to being removed from my lap but once he reconnected with 'Bertha', his home away from home, he fell asleep within seconds. I met my cousin outside who was sitting next to an extremely cute and friendly little girl, who had blonde curls and a little pink dress just like my daughter's... only when I got close enough did I see it was my daughter. I loaded her into 'Bertha' as well, said a very fatigued goodbye and headed to the car.
Never underestimate a two-year-old. The minute Mia realized we were heading home, she transformed once again into the wonderfully cool little person I knew. She started singing a little song as we walked and smiled at passersby. I wanted to rush back to the restaurant, burst into the busy dining area and show them, show them all how lovely my daughter really is! But I didn't. We were home-bound, we were leaving, and we knew we were never, I repeat, never going to do this again.
p.s. To any grandmothers or child protections service agents who happen to read this, this story was only slightly dramatized for literary purposes only...
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Sunday
Why Pregnant Women Rock (or: The Definitive Guide for Husbands Who Want to Stay Married After Pregnancy)
Pregnancy is a state of being that most women, and their husbands, wish they never knew existed after going through it. They forget that it's actually a magical time when hormones go haywire, bodily fluids flow freely and skin wants to stretch more than silly putty, when it just isn't supposed to.
The fact is, (and husbands, don't you forget it): pregnant women rock. I've read in books that this is the time when you should feel extremely feminine. Let's be honest, nothing in the world could be feminine about a large waddling female in maternity clothes, with a paunch the size of a retired 49-er and an ass the size of Rhode Island. The poor pregnant woman is forced to wear t-shirts with slogans that say 'My husband did this to me' or 'Baby on Board' and are still expected to have a smile on their face most of the time.
Incidentally, how dare they refer to maternity clothes as 'fashion', when nothing could be farther from the truth? I suppose pregnant women of the 21st century should just shut up and be thankful they aren't living in the 50's. Dr. Benjamin Spock advised in his book 'The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care' (1946), as soon as they started to show any signs of being 'with child', pregnant women were urged to don an oversized smock, which doubled as a family-size tent for vacations. Mind you, although they had to cover the fact that their hourglass figures were quickly going to pot, smoking cigarettes or drinking martini's was still certainly acceptable social behavior, according to Dr. Spock. But in those days, that was just 'common sense', I guess...
Pregnant women have to endure the most bizarre, uncomfortable, and yes, dare I say it, painful, changes in their bodies, and there's not a thing they can do about it. Trying to convince them that certain conditions are 'common' is not consoling. Until I got pregnant, I was convinced only truck drivers got hemorrhoids. The only thing that can console me now is the knowledge that mine are most likely prettier.
Being funny is the only way I knew how to cope with any moments of pain or discomfort during pregnancy, which was pretty much all the time. But you should've seen me give birth, I could've charged money for that performance! During the final stages of labor, the nurse placed a mirror between my legs so I could see the baby 'crowning', (intended as some sort of incentive to get me to push harder, I can only assume). I took one look at that ghastly reflection and all I could say between panting was: 'Well, now I know I'll never become a lesbian'!
Every pregnant woman develops a love-hate relationship with her toilet at a certain point in the pregnancy, usually starting around 14 minutes after the sperm has actually fertilized the egg. Pregnant women will get to know their toilet fresheners better than their in-laws by the time the first trimester is over. By 7 months, her bladder will be roughly the size of a lychee, and the baby's favorite pass-time will be to either use it like a little punching bag or practice tap-dancing on it. Essentially, this means the pregnant woman has a much more fulfilling and intimate relationship with her toilet than with her husband.
As the pregnant woman's girth increases, her mobility decreases (along with other trivial things, like her brain cell count, memory and sense of humor). Things like getting up, sitting down, rolling over in bed or reaching for the remote control can only be accomplished by a pregnant woman when accompanied by this audibly uncomfortable grunting sound: 'Aaaarruuuuuugh...!'. During this time, husbands are most likely busying themselves with putting cribs together and fiddling with night lights, but they need to be extra alert when they hear the pregnant woman make the 'Aaaarruuuuuugh...!' sound. That is when they should leap into action and suggest one of the three possibilities:
1) offer the pregnant woman some assistance in finding the remote control and reassure her she is not fat, she's just retaining water
2) offer the pregnant woman some chocolate
3) offer the pregnant woman to carry the baby for the remaining three months (WARNING: the husband will probably find this a humorous suggestion, but the pregnant woman may have already lost her sense of humor.)
So why do pregnant women rock, exactly? Despite all of this, a pregnant woman can still manage to get up every day, be a good wife and/or mother and/or girlfriend and then at one point actually give birth to a human being in an agonizingly long session of excruciating pain and exhilaration during a process they don't call 'labor' for nothing. And for that brief moment, when she's convinced the child she's bearing is the anti-Christ and her husband is none other than the Upper Demonic Master, and she just is not going to be able to pull it off, suddenly it happens: she's successfully traded pregnancy for another little miracle.
And if you ask me, that's a damn good trade.
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