Reason 467 that kids are soooo much fun

We went out for dinner after a school function last night. We decided to take the family to Outback. Not neccesarily a high-end restaurant, but with a family of 5 and my mom to boot, we expected to blow at least a hundred buckeroonies.

Let me just tell you, eating out with preschoolers is not always fun.

I'll give it to my kids, we were walking in the door at Outback around the same time they normally go to bed. Any parent of a preschooler knows that once they hit the point where they should have been in bed, one of two things will happen: they will get cranky, or they will get hyper. My kids tend to get hyper. While the hostess was finding a table big enough to hold my crew, the spawns of satan that I gave birth to started tearing apart the waiting area. I was in the bathroom "freshening up" while we were waiting, and when I came back, Abby was running laps on the bench in the waiting area, and Molly had emptied an entire bookshelf of kids books and had started on a tub of blocks. By the time I got that cleaned up and finished shooting some daggers at my husband (love you, honey), our table was ready.

One table over from us was a family who lives in our neighborhood. They have two sons, who are around 5 and 7. As soon as the boys saw us, they started yelling Molly's name. Molly is a sociable kind of girl. She's also a flirt. The next ten minutes were spent watching the two boys competing for the attention of my three year old which made my husband pull out his Papa Bear card and remind our little girl that boys are icky. He's hoping she'll wind up more interested in watching softball than baseball, if you know what I mean. We diverted Molly's attention with two words guaranteed to get the attention of any child: chocolate milk.

I asked the kids what they wanted to eat. Bryan, being a sulky almost-fourteen year old, declared that there was nothing on the menu worth eating. Seriously, kid? STEAK. Helllooooo?!? The girls knew what they wanted, and after 2.4 seconds, so did the rest of the people in the building.

"Chickens, chickens, I wants chickens, Mommy, chickens!"

"Macardoni and cheese! Mommy, mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mom, hey ma, hey ma, can I have macardoni and cheese?"

It had been a long day. I'd have fed them chocolate bon-bons for dinner if they'd be quiet, seriously. We ordered. They colored for a minute, then decided to make the crayons naked. Yeah, that's what they call it when they strip the paper off the crayons. Honestly, I'd rather see them undress the crayons than eat the crayons, so whatever. I was not, however, pleased when Abby started singing her naked crayon song.

"Nekkie, nekkie, crayons are nekkie, nekkie, NAKED!"

We got our food in record time (can't imagine why), and the kids decided at that instant that they were no longer hungry. Of course they did. If they ate at dinner, what would they use as an excuse not to go to bed when we got home? I gave them some more crayons to undress and dug into my steak.

Let me take a break in my horror story to tell you about my steak. Outback has a filet mignon that they put this horseradish crust on top of. It is slap-yo-mamma good. I'm serious. Try it.

I ate about four bites of my steak when the real fun began. Abby stood up in her highchair. I hissed "Sit down now," in my most serious mom voice.

"I can't. My booty hurts."

Abby is going through this weird phase where everything she says comes out in an outside kind of voice. She's loud. She's also cute, so people pay attention to her when she yells things. Heads turned toward our table. I asked what was wrong with her booty.

"I have to POOP!"

Oh, dear God, please let that have gone unnoticed. A quick glance around the room told me that it was definitely noticed. In addition to being loud, Abby also repeats herself a lot.

"I have to poop! I have to poop! Mommy, I have to poooooopy!"

I'm trying hard to potty train her, which is not so much fun. She has no interest in using the potty at home, but she feels the need to sit on every public toilet we get within a one mile radius of. Of course, I took her. Of course, Molly had to go, too.

Forty minutes later (I swear, I timed it), we returned to the table. There was an elderly man getting up to leave at the table next to ours. He leaned over to Abby and said, "Well, little lady, did you do your potty duty?" It might have been creepy, but he was like 110 and adorable, and he said it with a smile, so it wasn't icky at all. Abby smiled her brightest smile and answered him with a yell.

"No, I no pooped in the potty. I poop in mine pants!"

If you don't have kids and decide one day to take that turn toward masochism, remember this piece of advice. Do not EVER take them out to eat. Ever. Trust me on this one.

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.