A Five Star Restaurant Experience

Parental stripes. Medals of honor. Badges for bravery. I have this invisible patch I where on my shoulder. Parenthood deserves acknowledgement. So every now and then I award myself another star.

I developed this system at a truck stop, Thanksgiving 2006, when I threw Grant’s soiled clothes in the garbage. There was no other option. Awwww. My first star. The memories.

Quite a few of these “awards” have to do with poop. In fact, each of us earned a couple last week when Barrett and the rest of his class had it out with the craziest stomach bug to curse our house (yet). B even got a star of his own for bravery as he puked time and again…

Despite the constant amount of crazy in our life, after five years in uniform there are days when you feel like you’ve got the gig under control. There are days when you think for a minute you may have seen it all. Except something tells you there’s another surprise just around the corner. Such was the case tonight.

The boys needed hair cuts. It’s Easter weekend and my camera is charging. I have a vision, of the two of them, angelic in pastel blue and white, carrying their baskets and holding hands…

A girl can dream even it never quite looks the same in real life. Real life looks good too. It’s just wearing rain boots and carrying a water gun. Exhibit A: Easter Sunday 2009.

Anyhoo, Dad picked the kids up from school. I met them there in order to art direct the stylists. I am sure they love that…

The hair cut evening ritual involves moving from the barber chair next door to the pizza place. It was the usual chaos at dinner. Lots of bending over and picking up cups and forks. Lots of entertaining the troops while waiting for pizza to arrive. Attempts at conversation but lots of interrupted thoughts. Good news is we each had managed to down an adult beverage before the shit hit the fan. Literally.

When we noticed B was making THAT face we motioned to the waitress to bring the check. We were without a diaper bag on this venture. No life raft. No pacifier. No wipes. No diaper. No mention of who left home without the pack.

Of course, nothing would have really made a difference about the poop that had run down B’s leg onto his shoes, pooled in the high chair and dripped onto the floor…

The aroma was mixing with garlic and filling the air in the small restaurant when the waitress clued in and brought us a towel. She also brought the check. God bless her.

Deeda rushed to the parking lot his arms straight out – Mr. B dangling, dripping and laughing. G followed giggling. I signed the check. Tipped double. Wiped poo with paper napkins from the high chair and made a special request they take extra care in cleaning the high chair before the next child came along… Oh to think of the times our children have licked public high chairs…

By the time I arrived in the parking lot B had one shoe and one sock off. I bent down to get the rest and strategized with Christian about the next course of action. I give us extra points for generally laughing the entire time.

Thankfully G had a beach towel in the car from his picnic day at school. So we wrapped B up like a burrito and buckled him in. I’ve already blocked out most of the drive home but I do remember turning around to make sure he didn’t have his hands in his mouth to see him smiling, clapping and laughing. Meanwhile G was interjecting on our front seat strategy session with offers to hose him down. You could tell, big brother was frothed he might get to squirt him with a hose.

And so we hosed him down, bathed him, bleached him and put him to bed. Poo smell has permeated my nose hairs, but I am trying to kill it with a stiff drink. To quote one of G's favorite phrases, "Iiiit's the weeeeeeekend!" Easter weekend.