For all moms out there with little ones, you know going to a restaurant isn't always a joy. I found this journal entry I made from last year that sort of "illustrates" that point. For those moms going through this, just know it does get better!

October 10, 2007

I am never going to a restaurant with my kids again and that is final. So we’re on vacation in a little beach town (my brother flew in town to join us) and we wanted to grab some fish and chips – the perfect dinner by the ocean. We drive 15 miles to civilization and my three-year old is already showing signs of impatience. Dinner isn’t going to be pretty. I brace myself and arrange an escape route. If my three-year old gets out of hand, I’ll take her to the minivan and let the others eat in peace. Maybe I’ll at least be lucky enough to eat my salad. I can reheat the main course back at the beach house.

We arrive at the restaurant, one of the few in town, and from the look of things, it doesn’t exactly look kid-friendly. I get volunteered by my husband to go and ask if kids are welcome. Outside the front door of this rustic ocean restaurant wait an older couple and I ask them if they think the place would be ok for kids. They replied yes, but warned me the place was intimate and generally attracted an older crowd. We didn’t have another option.

I chit chat with the couple for a few more minutes when my brother (the crazy lad who hasn’t yet ran away screaming from spending time with my kids) comes around the corner. He joins in the conversation as we find out this couple is vacationing on the coast for three whole months. They promise me when we’re 65 and retired, we will get to vacation for three months at a time too. That sounds dandy, but for now I’m just trying to survive dinner.

We get the kids and go up two flights of stairs to the eating area. We seat ourselves, look around and realize our kids are the only children in the place – and yes, the place is small. I get nervous and ask for the car keys, so my escape plan can be quickly executed the second the freak out session begins. The server, a woman with a kind disposition, asks if there are two children here for dinner. I say, “Yes, is that ok?” She reassures me and hurries off to grab a cup of old crayons and a couple kid menus for the girls to color on, for which I am extremely grateful.

Age five in kid years must be when you can take them to dinner and relax, because my older daughter was a gem and even ate clams with my brother (this is also the age where they can buckle their own seatbelt and swing themselves – alleluia). My three year old, well, she didn’t want to color and instead dumped her water on the kid’s menu. Then she took my water and stuck her hands in it, swirled the germs around and fished for the ice cubes. My husband felt bad for me and offered his glass, but I said I was ok. I really just wanted to get through my salad. The server comes up to take our order and explains the other server didn’t show up to work and she had to care for every table in the place herself. We of course understood, but now I’m really getting worried, because every minute that passes by is another minute for a breakdown.

Trying to be patient, my three-year old climbs on top of the table before I can stop her and grabs two sugar packets. She’s yelling at me to “open” them, so she can dip her already wet fingers in there and lick the sugar off. This keeps her busy for 2.1 minutes before the sugar runs out and so is her patience. Saltteen crackers arrive and the wrappers are consuming the table. She had to open almost every packet, munch them like Cookie Monster and leave the crumbs all over the place. The bread arrives. She wants the butter and reaches with her finger, but we’re quick enough to grab it just in the nick of time. She wines and winces to get the butter in her hands.

“The salad is almost here, the salad is almost here,” I keep telling myself. My daughter is now hopping up and down on the bench. People are staring and I catch myself mouthing “sorry” to some of the offended. My husband tries to divert her attention by offering a cell phone to play with. She takes it and chucks it under the table breaking the back of it off. The salad comes and she’s now sitting in my lap, upside down, giggling. I don’t mind, because I’m eating my salad. Just then she grabs a few pieces of the shredded carrot, sticks it in her mouth, decides she doesn’t like it and spits it right back on top my salad. I keep eating it.

She climbs off my lap and starts doing summersaults on the ground. Salad over. I reach down, pick her up by the waist, she screams, the breakdown begins, I take her out and she’s yelling her sister’s name all the way. Before b-lining straight to the car, I give her a possible second chance by explaining to her that she needs to stay in her seat at the table. She agrees (yeah right) and we go back in.

The main course comes and not a second too early. My brother ordered clams and the girls are fascinated by the shells. I get a great idea. By squeezing the shells together you can make them talk. They laugh hysterically and I’m thinking I’ve finally won over the beast. Contrare Mufrare. Instead, she grabs a clam shell and bites her lips with it. Cute, but clam shells can be sharp – a little something I didn’t know – and she cuts her lip open. So now we’re dabbing her lips with the only semi-clean napkin left on the table to clean up the blood. But she won’t give up the darn clam shell, because it’s now her “friend.” Yeah, I just had to make it talk, didn’t I? So she decides to drop it under the table and dive for it head first. I’m now sticking my head under the table trying to get her while constantly saying, “Watch your head!” as she navigates her way out. I can just picture her bonking her head. That’s the last thing we need right now.

I’m trying to eat my mushroom crepe as fast as I can, while I’m watching my daughter “clean” her clam shell in her cup of water. The clam water turns an almost gray color with particles swimming about (I didn’t know you could turn water gray) and she tries to take a sip. We stop her and we’re not sure if she’s going to start balling or knock over the glass in frustration. Somehow we got her to consider eating her dinner and narrowly escape the collision. She tries a bite of the fettuccini alfredo and shouts out, “I don’t like it!,” but changes her mind when she sees her sister eat it. I’m glad she’s eating and I begin to enjoy my dinner for a brief moment. Moment done. She’s back under the table looking for her clam shell friend again.

I see a shadow in the kitchen and decide to tell her there’s a monster in there. This gets her attention and she squeals in excitement. She sits perfectly still with her eyes glued to the kitchen. Just enough time for my husband to scarf down the rest of his halibut. Bless his soul, my husband takes the girls to the car with his last bite still in his mouth forgetting his cell phone on the table. He’ll have to drive all the way back to the restaurant to get it, but for now my brother and I have a minute to finish our dinner in peace. Aaawww.

You know, this is what motherhood is all about – overcoming challenges. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, it’s down right insane, but these moments remind us not to judge another mom when her child goes off the deep end. We’ve all been there. It was just my turn tonight – again. By they way, for the record my brother says it wasn’t that bad, but that’s because he had a coffee heavily laced with Kalua and a pint of black butte porter ale.

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