I like food. I also like to see my friends. Sometimes the stars align, and I plan breakfasts or lunches or dinners with people I enjoy. And sometimes I take my toddler with me. Seasoned moms are probably scoffing at me right now, but this is no joke. It is a MAJOR UNDERTAKING to bring my spirited child to a restaurant, and it is not a mission I take lightly. Here’s how it usually works.
The Exposition
In classic literature, this is called an arming formula. Achilles rallies his men as they sharpen their swords, orating of their future successes and inspiring their hearts with his leadership. In pop culture, it’s the montage – Rocky doing pushups and running around Philadelphia. Oh wait, we all have small children. How about “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan? Pretty much the same thing.
Moms are masters of the arming formula. Diapers and wipes? Check. ALL the snacks? Checkity check. Carefully selected books and toys because you know you’re going to be picking them up off the floor repeatedly and why oh why are her favorite toys so incredibly LOUD? Checkity check check.
You’ve successfully packed everything (and everyone) into the car, and you set out for your breakfast date. Now the mental preparation begins – YOU are Achilles, psyching up your army of one. I can totally do this! She’ll probably only spill syrup once. It was fine last time, wasn’t it? Maybe this is a place where they give the kids a little box of trinkets to keep them busy. We’re going to be fine. She’ll definitely wave at people when they assume she’s a boy and then awkwardly stumble over their apology when I introduce her as Lucy. This’ll be a breeze.
The Rising Action
As you enter the restaurant, you try to set down your toddler. She needs a minute to stretch her legs before I ask her to sit in a booth for an hour, you think. Hahahahahahahaha, she thinks. As soon as your child’s toes touch the floor, an unholy sound rises from knee height. Heads turn. It’s the first moment of panic. No no no, why did I do this? How did I think this was a good idea? I regret everything.
The moment passes, but you’re on high alert, hyper-aware of the shoe that just dropped to the floor on the way to your table, and of the immediate water spill upon being seated. This is the rising action, building toward the inevitable climax.
Then the balancing act begins. I brought snacks, but what if I let her eat all of them and she won’t eat her kiddie meal and then it’s just a nightmare? Why do restaurants give kids crayons – don’t they know they’re just going to roll off the table? The breakfast burrito sounds amazing, but there’s no way I’ll have both hands free to eat. Do I even bother with a high chair? She won’t be any happier there than in the booth next to me.
Your dining companion offers to hold the toddler, and you whimper. Nothing would make you happier, and nothing would make the little one more furious. You smile graciously, maintain a firm grip on your child, and settle in for the long haul.
The Climax
At this point, you think the meal itself is going to be the easy part. As soon as she gets some yummy pancakes in her little tummy, we’ll have smooth sailing until the check comes. She’s such a good eater at home – this will be simple! Oh man, my food looks SO great. I’m going to eat every single bite of it.
You poor sweet thing. This is the climax.
Ten minutes later and there’s an oil stain on your pants, smeary handprints all over the diner window, syrup on every square inch of exposed toddler skin, and you’ve taken approximately two and a half bites of your own meal. The table looks as though you just survived the food fight from Hook. (Bangarang!) As your little one tries to slide off the bench to explore the underside of the table, you haggardly ask the waitress for some to-go boxes. At least you both have lunch. Then a rogue pint-sized palm smacks an open takeout container to the floor, spilling its delicious contents. Well, one of you has lunch.
The Epilogue
The check is sitting on the table and the toddler is finally, FINALLY, content with the crayons and kids menu that were provided upon your arrival. Suddenly you realize that you’ve hardly conversed with your friend across the table, and launch into the hypersonic speed question and answer portion of the morning.
You tip generously, hug tightly, and head back out to the car, hand in hand with your satisfied toddler. On the way home your whirling dervish of a child coos innocently from the back seat, delighted by the morning’s outing, as you keep glancing at the clock, calculating the minutes remaining until nap time. Upon finally arriving home, utterly exhausted, you abandon the diaper bag in the car and desperately turn on Daniel Tiger, swearing to yourself that you’ll never take the little one out for breakfast again. Ever. Period.
Later that day, a text from your best friend. Brunch tomorrow? You should totally bring Lucy!
And away we go again.
