It's Not What You Think

"I want credit for trying something new tonight."  These are the words that I was met with upon getting in the car last night.

Let's be clear here.  This was not my child.  Well, not a child I have given birth to.  This is the child I married.  The one who has to be convinced to wear pants and can pitch a stubborn fit if you try to explain that not everything is a "shorts" venue.  That a hoodie is not a jacket.

This would be the individual who, when asked to choose a dinner setting, as I had procured the tickets for the entertainment portion of the evening, could not decide which diner, with early bird special  posted roadside, was best.  (And based on the number of large four-door cars parked catawampus in the parking lot, and the line of walkers at the door, I'm going with venue one being the choice of a certain vintage.)  "There is more to dining out than onion rings." I offered.  And somewhat grumpily we moved on to the next highway exit.

I had suggested a venue that neither of us had been to, but had rave reviews from friends.  We pulled into a completely empty parking lot and darkened building, but yes, we are the people who need a sign and so, exited the vehicle and walked to the door to read that dinner is not served every night.  And more to the point of this story, not this night in particular.

Again to the car.  Time was no longer on our side and Mr. Unscripted offered "There's a place the guys at work talk about.  Let's go there.  They all say it's amazing."
"Yes, but these are some of the same guys who think Spam on a stick is a delicacy. "

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised..." 

Well, I was one of those things.    Ninety-five side streets, four parking lots, and a parking maneuver that is probably illegal in some states we once again exit the car.  Okay, the backside of virtually everything, (except possibly J Lo or a Kardashian), is not it's finest...ahem....asset.  I decided not to pass judgment on the restaurant based on it's rather sketchy and somewhat run-down posterior.  And, albeit redolent of fries, the scent of dinner being prepped was in the air and, what the hell, we were here right?

Rounding the corner onto the street, we pass by a plywood-boarded entrance and fluttering caution or crime scene tape.  Honestly, it could have been either.  And no, we are still the people who need a sign.  So we progress further down the sidewalk past the second boarded, and third barricaded entrances.  And then, because I had had a horrible day at work, and hadn't slept in days, and hadn't eaten lunch that day, when I heard "I guess they're under construction..."  I briefly contemplated shoving my date into the street.  But I'm pretty sure the life insurance policy is negated by actually killing him in a low-blood sugar moment.  And so he lives yet.

I got a certain tone in my voice and a certain look that brooks no interference and pointed him bodily toward the only establishment that was open, not bedecked with fluttering tape, and appeared to be actually serving food.  And we were now running on an hour to eat, drive, park, walk, and offer tickets to the show.    We were seated immediately, (again the look may have factored in here), and I ordered my beverage, because let's be honest, there was going to be a DRINK.  Which came quickly and dropped at an alarmingly fast rate, which may have explained my intolerance of the trying-too-hard woman at the bar and Mr. glued-to-his-cell-phone who was ignoring her "Nanny Fran" siren song, (except for the hand that was nearly constantly up her shirt).

Often, Mr. bypasses the beverage if he's doing the driving.  I appreciate this.   However, I do have a running commentary in my head of what I think the waitstaff are thinking about our very one sided ordering.  My drink this evening arrives in a glass that could house a reasonable number of goldfish. It is a rich brown ale and divine.  So divine that I had to see if it could be repeated.  (It could.)  Mr. Unscripted orders his glass of water.  And then calls the waitstaff back and orders a glass of something that sounds robust, but arrives in a delicate little glass.  Even more diminutive sidled up to my tank of spirits.    I now feel like lumbering Bertha dining with Tiny Tim. 

Enter our dinner.  Mr. Unscripted could not make a decision faced with new food choices, and so simply uttered the almost always regrettable, "I'll just have what she's having."  And I let him.  And so we get to the end of our tale, and where the story began.  Mr. Unscripted did not enjoy his fermented golden beets.  He did not enjoy the idea of cold beets period.  And he did manage to put one in his mouth and actually swallow it before sliding his portion over to Bertha.  And for this he wanted credit.  And it may have been the ale talking, but I think I can be quoted as "Oh hooray, and for the love of Norman Rockwell, you win an award!  You totally ate one whole slice of a vegetable you love...COLD!  Oh good boy!"

I may not be asked back.  By him.  The waitstaff think I'm great.

And for those of you who are feeling sorry for the Mister right now, be apprised that he ASKED me to write this entry.  He's a good sport, even if he is a wussy and finicky diner.

And for those of you who want to eat beets and drink out of mighty glasses with me next time, this is what I'm having:

Can You Have Road Rage in Your Kitchen?

On at least two mornings this past week I had three clothed children at the door, wearing backpacks and all outdoor accoutrements, and circled back through the house to turn off lights, double check faucets that lure in a toddler with their siren song, and bed-check the dogs to make sure that there were two, no more no less, secured inside the building.  Thirty seconds tops.  Really.

 I return to two children in near naked state, and one child now holding boots and socks in their hands, and to find backpacks completely unpacked in search of a favorite rock or stuffie or "banopa" bar.  Mind you, there were very few minutes to get all and sundry into the car and actually fling them from a nearly stopped car and make it to work in a timely fashion.  When you are a parent of three, I find, your ability to curse like a sailor under breath waxes and wanes. 

Going anywhere, and I mean anywhere, is a full orchestral event.  It requires surgical precision and exquisite timing and the ability to mind read.  One has to be attuned with bat-like radar to subtle shifts in mood, perceptible only to the super-attentive, or perennially embarrassed and anxious.  If you have carried a child out of a chain store, screaming and sobbing hysterically while chanting "You're not my Mommy" to the shocked and concerned faces of the entire Eastern seaboard, you know of what I speak.  You will never, ever,  EVER, push your luck and try to squeeze in one more errand again.  Sober.

The family of four dynamic is set up with the exactly right number of hands for single parent or dual parent outings.  The family of five relies on one child to be passive and tethered into a seat, or one child to be absolutely stellar in the compliance and comportment department.  I did not a) plan my child's age spans to meet this need, b) parent with enough threat and fear to obtain absolute compliance at all times, c) receive children with unquestioning and "follower" personalities, d) all of the  above.

What I have learned is that I either have to lower my standards or raise my ability to deflect the stares of onlookers.  Sometimes both.  The compliments paid on the rare well-behaved outing (and I include myself in the behavior equation) are treasured.  Thank you to those of you who saw the rare planetary alignment and commented on it.  Thank you also to those who waited to scoff and roll your eyes and text your friend the video of the spectacular event until I was out of sight.  I appreciate both camps.

I have learned to take reinforcements.  People that can handle our particular vintage of crazy, and people who will help me see the humor in the horror.  People who are quick to step in, but in a way that does not imply I should have done it sooner myself.   People I enjoy and who can pretend they did not hear the profanity flowing like a vernal mountain stream.  People who can provide perspective that this is not forever, that there is joy and humor, and that these kids are actually pretty good kids much of the time.

People who can provide the insight that my bored and schlumpy toddler, sprawling nearly backward out of her child containment unit, (high chair to those of you not yet indoctrinated), is doing a spot-on John-Candy-in-Uncle-Buck impersonation.  Thank you.  That is the reframe I needed.

If you go anywhere with me, I will feel the need to apologize for the state of my car.  I will feel embarrassed for the number of times you have to hear the full name of at least one of my children.  I will have a running anxious soundtrack of "I bet they wish they had stayed home/ just met us here/ started drinking when they got up..."

 I will appreciate your ability to carry on a conversation with a sibling war of epic proportions being waged a mere sneaker throw from the back of your head.

 I will be grateful that you did this more than once.