We rarely take the boys out to eat. Now, one of us might run out and grab fast food and bring it home, but the boys rarely go into restaurants. It isn’t a money thing; it’s just stressful for me. You don’t enjoy the food. It’s hard to enjoy the company you’re with. (Some might ask how we plan on training the boys to be in restaurants if we never take them there. But I believe that they will be just fine should they never dine out until they’re 8. Somehow, they’ll still learn to be still. We have time for them to learn this life lesson. Later.)
But a couple of weeks ago, my mom invited us out and it was great timing — it was getting late and I didn’t have dinner plans. The boys had taken long afternoon naps. It was to a place that I love (Olive Garden.) There would be more adults there than children. And with a 3rd on the way, I knew it was almost a “now or never” kind of moment. So I gave an enthusiastic yes!
Dinner was great. The service was slow as the restaurant was really busy, but the boys did really well. (Of course, my expectations were low.) As we were getting ready to leave and pay our bill, Finn said “Mama, I got sickies in my tummy.”
So I scooted him over to me and we cuddled while Jeff dealt with the check. Well, we cuddled as much as you can squeezed into a booth.
Then I stood him up to put his coat on him. He leaned over into me and puked. A few times. He hadn’t eaten too much, but whatever was in there, all came out. Mostly on me, but some on the bench seat. Some on the floor. Some on the table. Some even flew and hit Jeff’s shoe.
He instantly felt better of course. At nearly the same time, Stephen started crying cause he was D.O.N.E. He had had enough and was ready to go.
My mother laughed (kindly, in a “I remember those days” kind of way) and took a picture. Me, 30-some weeks pregnant in a restaurant booth with a crying 1-year-old and a puking 2-year-old. It was one of those “I’m just gonna laugh about this because there isn’t much else I can do anyway” kind of moments.