The only thing worse than taking my kids to a restaurant is taking them to a buffet. There is so much potential for disaster there that it gives me little chill bumps when one of them mentions the word "buffet" in my house. They all love it, though. Once in a while I take a sedative and tag along while we hit the all-you-can-eat near my house.

We braved it the other night. It wasn't my idea, and I tried to protest, but I got outvoted. I toyed with the idea of faking a headache and sending them without me, but I didn't dare leave the four of them unsupervised in public. My husband has a much different idea than I do of what is acceptable behavior in public. So, I got in the car and went.

We parked, paid, and found a table. I sent my husband and son ahead to scout out the buffet while I got the girls situated. Bryan turned to walk away, but stopped two tables away. "Hey, Mom, hold my ball."

In the time it took me to process what he had said, he tossed a dirty, gross tennis ball at me. This ball was nasty. It looked like a team of Great Danes used it as the puck in a game of mud hockey. When he tossed it, I missed it. Hey, I'm not athletic, and he didn't even give me a warning - just tossed it mid-sentence. So the ball hits the floor behind me, bounces once, then rolls underneath a booth against the wall. Of course, it was occupied. That's a good thing because nobody wanted to see me trying to crawl under the booth to retrieve the ball. It's a bad thing because the little boy at the table did crawl under and retrieve it. After he gave me the ball back, his mother made a face and whispered (loudly), "Go wash your hands. That was disgusting." Thanks, Bryan.

I put the ball in my purse and sat down, dirty hands and all. The boys were back with food, so I did a quick cleaning of hands with a diaper wipe (of course, that's what they're for) and went to fix plates for myself and the girls. By the time I got back to the table, both of the guys were heading for round two. It never fails to amaze me how much they can eat.

Bryan came back with a plate of nachos. They were good looking nachos. Take a close look at the picture. Crispy corn chips, tasty taco meat, yummy shredded cheese, spicy crushed red tortillas, and... care to wager a guess what the other thing on that heap is?

"Ummm, hey Bryan. What's that?"

"Nachos!"

"No, I mean that." I pointed to the brownish blob on top of the pile.

"Refried beans!" Still with enthusiasm, too.

"Sweetie, I don't think that's refried beans."

He didn't believe me. I made him let me take a picture of the nachos before he tried them in case he barfed. He shrugged off my caution and took a big old honking bite of nacho. His face went from surprise (even though I warned him) to confusion to disgust.

Cinnamon butter. That's what he put on his nachos. The nacho section of the bar was right next to a tub of baked sweet potatoes. Cinnamon butter is fantastic on sweet potatoes, but I guess not so much on the nachos. The server came by to clear plates later and eyeballed the full plate of nachos. To his credit, he didn't ask, but I had to volunteer why they didn't get eaten. He laughed almost as hard as I did.

By this point the girls were done eating. I got them ice cream. Molly snorted hers in 4 seconds and wanted more. I don't think so, kiddo. She got out of her chair and stood behind it. She stuck her arm through this hole in the back of it. Who the hell knows why she does some of the things she does, but this was her bright idea of the day. Predictably, she got it stuck right above the elbow. I contemplated leaving her there, but she was starting to scream. I pried her loose and told her to sit down. She didn't, so I told her if she was going to stand up that she should just do this:

It seemed like a good idea to me. Every parent needs a set of portable stocks to lock their kids in when they're out in public. I briefly considered marketing the idea, but two seconds after taking that picture, she got stuck again. This time she got stuck pretty tightly in there. I sent my husband to find some lubrication to help slide her elbow out of the hole. He brought back cinnamon refried butter beans. Before I was forced to grease her up like a sweet potato, our server came to the rescue. He tilted the chair and she easily pulled her arm out.

"You look like you've done that before."

"You'd be surprised how many kids get their arms stuck in those chairs."

I eyed him sceptically. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better for the whole 'Mother of the Year award that I'll never be recieving' thing?"

He actually convinced me that this is not the worst he'd seen in that restaurant. Right at that moment, we all heard a weird sucking sound. The server, my husband and myself all turned our heads toward the sound, expecting to see one of the kids doing something horrendous. Nothing could have prepared me for what we actually saw.

There was an older man at the next table, holding his dentures in his hand. He was inspecting them for food scraps, then sucking his finds off. He literally licked them clean, right there in the middle of the dining room. When he was done, he tucked them neatly into his shirt pocket and picked up his coffee cup as nonchalantly as if he had done nothing more than fold his napkin.

The server looked at me, nodding his head a little toward the other table, and said, "Case in point. A stuck arm is nothing around here."

No freaking kidding.

I walked out on a family dinner tonight. I used the "have to potty" excuse and walked right out. It wasn't a special dinner, just the five of us having some pretty darn good smothered chicken and veggies, but something happened that made me step away from my children and husband for a minute.

Have you ever been in the middle of a day-to-day routine and suddenly seen it from a different perspective? I was in mid-chew of a delectable bite of home cooked goodness, trying in vain to ignore the conversation around me, when I had an out of body experience and saw my normal family dinner as something far less than normal.

Things started off a little wrong when I called my family to dinner. We're one of those families that sit down to eat every night (although after tonight's revalation, that may change). We pull up our chairs all "Leave it to Beaver" style and have conversations and everything. I should say we attempt conversation, because anyone who has been in the room with a preschooler for more than 30 seconds knows it's hard to get a word in, but that's a whole different story.

When I called the kids to come eat, Molly was nowhere to be found. I had to look for her for at least ten minutes before I heard her giggle. She's recently made herself a nest inside a giant rubbermaid container that was once (as in three days ago) a toybox. Don't even ask me where all the toys are, because I might be compelled to show you a picture of their bedroom, and that would not be pretty. So she was curled up like a kitten inside her plastic prison, covered in a blanket so I missed her the first few times I walked by. She knew I wasn't amused. I mean, come on - my cheese was sure to be ungooeyfied by now.

We finally got everyone to the table, and the chaos began.

"Eww, is that a green pepper?"
"Mommy, I pooped."
"I don't like green beans."
"Molly, your corn is not a phone. Hang it up and eat."
"I have to talk to Mimi."
"Tell Mimi you're about to get spanked."
"Mimi, I have to go eat now."
"Eat your meat - a chicken died to feed you tonight. "
"What's that smell?"
"Mommy, I pooped."
"Stop kicking me. Mom, she's kicking me."
"Don't stand in the highchair, because if you fall out and crack your head on the table leg it's going to bleed, and I'm not cleaning up blood tonight."
"What time's your carwash Saturday? I want to come help."
"You're not going to do the milkshake song are... stop kicking me."
"I poopied."
"Molly, don't you throw your fork on the floor again or you're going to be in trouble."
"Myyyyy milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..."
"Mommy, I'm not throwing my fork. The wind is taking it over to the floor."
"Something stinks in here. Is it this chicken?"
"Mommy, I have poop on my hand."
"Molly, if a tornado takes the roof off this house, picks your fork up and throws it across the room onto the floor, you're still going to be in trouble for throwing it down, and I'm not kidding."

That last statement was met with complete silence from every member of my family. I could see that my husband was trying not to laugh. I shot him a stink eye and mentally dared him to laugh. My kids all sat staring at me as if they were waiting for a straightjacket to suddenly materialize on my body.

"WHAT? What are you all staring at?"

Not. A. Word.

I calmly stood, said, "I'm going to the bathroom," and walked out of the room. I stood in front of the mirror plucking stray eyebrow hairs, thinking about what had just happened. Yes, I said plucking. What else was I supposed to do? I didn't actually have to go, and it was the longest I've been in a bathroom without company in two years. So anyway, as I was plucking, my thoughts naturally led to the President. I stood there *pluck* thinking, "If Dubya were here for dinner," *pluck* "what would he think of my family?" *pluck* Ow.

I leaned against the counter, ignoring the blob of toothpaste crawling towards my hip, and thought on it for a minute. I felt satisfied with my conclusion. I'm sure if the President met my family, he'd write me an advance presidential pardon for any criminal acts I should commit, ever.

Satisfied with my eyebrows, I moved on to removing my toenail polish. I balanced on the edge of the tub, anchored by the blob of toothpaste that had made its way to my butt, and started swiping my nails with a blob of acetone soaked toilet paper. My thoughts broadened a bit. "What if Dr. Phil were having dinner with us?" He'd like my chicken. Yeah, he would. It was good stuff. He'd probably have seconds before he looked at me and whipped out a "What are you, stupid?" He'd definitely fly us out to be on his show. That would be great, except I can't get through a 30 minute meal anymore without having a nervous breakdown, so how in the hell could I handle a plane ride with my family? Oh yeah - I'll hide out in the bathroom. I wonder if they would confiscate my tweezers.

I eventually made my way back to the table. They were all done eating, sitting silently in their chairs. I sat down, picked up my fork, and finished my chicken. I looked around the table and said, "What? Why are you all so quiet?"

My bad. That one simple comment opened the floodgates, and I forgot to blow up my raft.

"Are you okay, mom?"
"You went potty long time, mama."
"Honey, do you have diarrhea or something? You were in there forever!"
"Mom must have really had to poop."
"Mom, why are your eyelids red? Were you crying?"
"Mommy, you pooped?"
"Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"What's that smell?"
"It's Abby. She pooped."
"Not that. It smells like acid or something."
"Maybe it's your breath."
"She kicked me the whole time you were pooping, Mom."
"What's for dessert?"
"I's still poopy."
"That tornado took my fork, Mom."
"Are you sure you're alright? Do you need some Immodium?"
"Is someone knocking on the door?"

Please, God, let it be Dr. Phil. Maybe he'll commit me.