Margarita, Por Favor: Family Dinner Out

My first mistake: I didn't check to make sure the place had a liquor license. Because really, if I'm going to take my three children, aged nine, seven, and five into a public place to sit down and consume a meal, I'm assuring you: it's better if I have a margarita. Or three. Yep, me and Hubs decided to make a bold move last weekend: we packed up the whole clan for a dinner out at our local, small town Mexican restaurant. Silly, silly us.

Now, I know what you smug singletons and childless folk are muttering under your breath right now: So what? You went out to eat? That merits a blog entry and/or liquor buzz? Oh, it so does. Because I should have earned a medal for the experience. And any parent of multiple children will tell you the same: dining out with young people is not for the feint of heart. Indeed, it may just be the Ph.D. in parenting. And yes: it's much easier with tequila.

Just making the kids appear less feral is the first part of any family evening out. Mismatched clothes must be replaced. All capes, costumes, and masks must be lovingly separated from the children that would have them as dinner attire. Have you ever eaten a meal while being glared at through the eye-slits of an Iron Man mask? Okay at home, perhaps, but not in public. But separating small boys from their superhero garb can be a tall order.

Hair must be de-ratted and flattened down. Faces must not display remains of the last meal or snot in liquid or solid form. Convincing arguments for not bringing Barbie and the entirety of her wardrobe to the restaurant must be brokered. Matching socks must be acquired. Add half an hour here if your laundry is partially folded. Debates must be made against the wearing of flip-flops in 30 degree weather. After you give up, the right flip flop will never be near the left flip flop. Never.

Several punches and shoves later, we made it into the van (lovingly referred to as the Blazebago) for the brief, five minute drive across town to the restaurant. Time to cue the arguments and tears: no television for a whole five minutes! Calamity! Evidently my children draw their power from the light cast from cathode ray tubes. Without their glow, you would think my children lose power like Superman near a glowing hunk of Kryptonite.

At the restaurant, Hubs wisely picked us a table in the way back. I'm ashamed to say, inside voices were not used as another fight ensued: I WANT TO SIT BY MOMMY. Why, oh, why, do they never want to sit by Daddy? I have three kids, mind you. Not three sides. You can see the inherent problem with the math. There is no winner here, folks. Bribery involving dessert may or may not have played a role in resolving that issue. But like with most traumatic events, I seem to have repressed it.

Next: to the orders! Here is where I learn the devastating news: Lo siento mucho, no vendemos alcohol. Egads! But press on we would. We came to the Mexican restaurant because last week all the children found something on the menu to eat. Same restaurant, next Saturday: and they all want chicken nuggets. LE SIGH. But they can all agree on chips and queso...and I'm standing up serving little bowls of queso when the first, dreaded bathroom call comes.

My children, for some reason unbeknownst and unfathomable to me, are on a mission to deflower every restaurant and retail establishment bathroom in the county of Collin, Texas. How do they time it? I swear, it's like a Rain Man type gift. And by the time my daughter and I return from the facilities, my sons have decided it is dire and time for them to inspect the Gentlemen's. When they return with Hubs, my daughter pipes up in her adorable, oh-so-clear voice, "NOW I HAVE TO POO, MOMMY," which might also help explain why we always get a table near the back and the occasional fish-eye from other diners.

Up and back to the bathroom. Where we sit, she smiling and swinging her darling little feet with her panties pooled around them until she looks up at me and says, "I don't have to poo, Mommy." Back to the table, where she announced she actually DOES have to poo, but insists her father takes her this time. Much discussion ensues about which gender bathroom to enter. In the meanwhile, my sons have applied at least two layers of queso to themselves.

The food arrives. It is too hot. There are tears. There is me blowing on multiple plates of food until I have a head rush that would make Keith Richards proud. Finally, mercifully, there is eating. And some singing and banging of silverware, but yes, there is at last consumption of nutrition. Praise Jesus. I am Captain Shush throughout it all as my children are generally shouters. And then...dessert.

Sopapillas for all! We were given one apiece. Each child had to have theirs cut, sugared, and honeyed. When I didn't eat mine, I thought they were going to go all Lord of the Flies on me trying to decide which one would claim it. I was forced to surgically create three, identical pieces, once again to sugar and honey, then cut into bite size pieces. Johnnie Cochran and Robert Kardashian in their hey could not have arranged a more equitable divisions of assets.

To say I was tired by the time we loaded everybody back up and at end of this expenditure would be to say Lindsay Lohan has just a spot of legal trouble. Holy cats. The lengths to which we parents will strive for family time and a couple of nice memories. Ai yi yi. Don't get me wrong. I love my kids, and one day I'll look back on this and laaaaaugh...but in the meanwhile, do me a favor, eh? When you're at a restaurant near a table full of kids, save me the stink eye. Or maybe just send me over a margarita.