Dinner... with Children

The other night, my husband and I were enjoying a quiet, romantic dinner at an Italian restaurant we love for very different reasons. Glenn loves it because the pasta sauce is hearty and spicy, the service is friendly, and the prices are reasonable. For me, it’s all about the generously-sized wine glasses (my needs simplify as I age). Unfortunately, our meal was marred by the antics of some ill-mannered kids who were wrestling under one of the tables. Even more inconveniently, they were our kids.

When our boys were babies, restaurant dining was so much simpler. We’d call ahead and ask one vital question. We didn’t care if the health department had recently condemned the place, or whether there was a two-hour wait for a table, or even if they had tables. A ceiling fan was all we required. We’d plop our kids under the fan and they’d stare at it, mesmerized, their little eyes rolling around in their heads, until they were drooling and nearly comatose. It probably cost them a few dozen I.Q. points, but hey – we got to eat!

Toddlerhood was a different story.

“Look at the ceiling fan! Whee!” we’d cajole them, desperation giving our voices a manic edge, but our kids, despite our best efforts, had grown smarter. Also more self-destructive. Forget the stinking crayons we’d brought along – right in front of them were knives, steaming hot cups of cappuccino, and, if it was their lucky day, even open flames!

All in all, our evenings out were a bit lacking in the ambiance department. First Glenn and I would fight over who should abandon their just-served dinner to change a diaper.

“My food will get cold,” I’d complain, shooting out a hand to catch a kid who was about to tip over in a high chair.

“You’re having a salad,” he’d point out, stomping on a burning napkin. (I never should’ve married a lawyer; they tend to be sticklers for details.)

The actual eating part of our dinners was a special challenge. We’d try to contain the kids with our right hands while shoveling our meals into our mouths with our left ones (occasionally stabbing ourselves in the chin as we dove to catch a flying glass of ice water). We’d engage in a quick debate – leave a huge tip or clean up our trail of destruction? – then flee the restaurant, ducking our heads to avoid the glares of other diners, whose children were obviously sedated.

“Why did we pay to do this?” we’d wonder as we trekked to our minivan and our kids began whining, “We’re hungry!”

“From now on we’re eating at home,” I’d vow.

“But we can’t cook,” Glenn would point out. Stickler, that one.

Then our boys morphed from toddlers into tiny little men. Back when they were small, they’d gum a single French fry for an hour and call it a meal. Now they have opinions. Zagat-like, they rate places on ambiance (extra stars for video games at the bar), quality of after-dinner mints (for the record, Rio Grande’s peppermints are superior) and menu selection, which is an especially tricky area. Our seven-year-old, Jack, adheres to a strict Adkins diet of meat and cheese products, while our five-year-old, Will, prefers a supermodel diet: Heavy on Casear salads and carrot sticks. Still, they’re able to sit still for more than a minute at a stretch, and they can use butter knives for things other than disciplining each other (which I swear they never learned from me).

As for Glenn and I, things have come full circle. Usually by the time we find a restaurant that satisfies both kids, we’re so exhausted that staring slack-jawed at a ceiling fan for an hour or two seems like a pretty nice way to spend an evening.