Breathe, baby.  BREATHE!

My husband’s parents, I will call by the titles Grandma and Grandpa, since that’s what my girls call them. I can assure you that they raised two well-adjusted adult children of their own (one of whom I married), and probably have never had a story like one posted here, on this blog! They are parents to be admired, and I’m especially blessed to have married into their family. Grandma called to invite me and the girls to lunch today at our favorite restaurant. I said , “Yes”, then put the ‘finishing touches’ on while my daughters got themselves dressed (great thing about having a 6 and a 4 year old – they can DO that!). I kissed my DH goodbye as he was leaving for work, and went to pick up the rest of our ‘party’.

We had a waiter who introduced himself and said that he had never seen us before, to spite the fact that we consider ourselves regulars. He seemed very amiable to begin with.

At least he seemed so at this point.

When Rosie started unremarkably dropping crayons, then her kids’ menu, and finally her silverware on the floor, the waiter dutifully picked them up and looked at me. I explained that after Rosie has deliberately dropped something, she doesn’t get it back. It’s my way of avoiding the inevitable ‘I drop this and Mommy gives it back – every time’ game with my daughter. The young man rolled his eyes and walked away. I began to keep a running score in my mind. Strike one.

When the appetizers arrived,I gave the baby some fried pieces of the appetizer (aren’t they all fried?), and my own fork to eat with. Of course, when Rosie had cleaned her plate (babies always love anything fried, don’tcha know) she also tossed my fork on the floor. When the waiter came to refill our drinks, he looked driectly at me and said, “She’s going to clear us out of silverware and kids’ menus!”. While I was definitely feeling what Klingons call ‘aggressive tendencies’ , I put on my best Poker Face and calmly replied, “That’s why I don’t give them back.” Strike two.

We waited an unsettling amount of time for that same waiter to return with the bill for our lunch. We had all finished eating at one point before he surfaced again, and Rosie was ready for a nap (read: she was whining and squirmy), and Grandma graciously offered to take her for a walk outside. Rosie reached for her Grandma, eager to be out of that high-chair. Grandma hoisted Rosie to her shoulder, and began to walk toward the door. When Rosie realized I was not going to join them on their stroll, she began to ‘wind-up’ for a wail. Her face crumpled up, tears started rolling down her cheeks, legs kicking, arms flailing, but no sound came out. I followed them with my eyes all the way to the door, mentally (and verbally) pleading with Rosie to breathe, baby. Breathe, Rosie. Come on BREATHE! As Grandma headed out the door, I heard the first of Rosie’s protests. Then, I could start breathing again. Whew!

I know the waiter had nothing to do with my daughter crying, but making us wonder if he’d ‘fallen in’: Strike three!


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