Let's go to dinner- and take the girls!

He meant well. He called right before 5:00 last night on his way home from work. "What are you doing tonight?" he asked. I said, "I'm trying to figure out something for dinner." To my amazement he suggested, "Why don't we go to Winger's and get some dinner? They have that 2 for $22 thing (he loves the asphalt pie for dessert)." Well, he just made my day. I wasn't excited about cooking that night. I asked, "Are we taking the girls (thinking I had the usual 20 minutes to find a babysitter)?" He said, "Sure. We can take them." That was a relief. Although I do like my own time with my hubby, I hate calling babysitters on the spot. And, the last time we took the girls out to eat (granted, it was probably with Grandma and Grandpa), was months ago, and they must've behaved pretty well, seeing as I couldn't remember it. So, besides the fact that Taylor is working on getting potty-trained, I figured it wouldn't be too bad.
I was wrong. Oh-- so wrong.
They sat us at a booth/table right next to the restrooms (the saving grace of the evening). One end of the table was against the wall, Taylor and I sat on the cushy bench side, Kortney and Neil sat across from us on the chairs, and Emmrie sat at the open end of the table in a high chair, right between Neil and me. I thought it was great. There were a few tables of couples all around us, and right next to us was a table of kids out on a double-date, talking about school and taking goofy photos of each other (exactly what I would be doing out on a date in high school). Kortney and Taylor went straight to occupying the whole table-top and fighting over who had the orange crayon while they opened up and colored all over their kids menus. I went right to the 2 for $22 menu, grateful that I only had a few choices, since I probably had only one minute to choose. As I fought Taylor to keep her coloring page closed long enough so I could see the kids menu, Kortney told Neil she wanted chicken. Not chicken Alfredo. Just chicken. Perfect! Chicken fingers are not saucy and messy. I like chicken fingers. She could have those. And they come with fries- her favorite, since we only get them when we rarely eat out. Since Taylor didn't care what she ate (it's hit or miss with her and her appetite), and they're tiny girls, we decided they could share the chicken fingers meal. Emmrie, the one who won't eat baby food at all, and who gags herself once she's bored enough or has had enough, would eat off our plates. I had just fed her before we left, anyway, so she should be fine food-wise. I gave her the plastic ketchup bottle to play the drums on, and the waitress took our order. Why do they bring the kids' drinks out before their meals? I don't know. Taylor broke every straw before we could even get them through her lid, then she tried to take the lid off- while the cup was tilted in her lap. They each drank half of their drink before we even got our sticky wings. Yes. Sticky wings. Who chose the sticky ones? Is that just how they come, or did Neil order them sticky while I was distracted? The poor waitress, obviously unaware of a 9-month-old's arm span, brought them out and placed them right in front of Emmrie. I saw her chubby hand coming, and with mother-like reflexes, while grabbing Taylor's cup and straw in one hand, I reached out and snagged Emmrie's little wrist with the other, just as her finger tips touched the sticky sauce and curled up for the grasp. And where were our napkins? Still wrapped around the silverware sets. Just as I set Taylor's cup on the table, she snatched it back up again, and continued drinking her Sprite. You know, sugar in liquid form is so much more effective for her. Why not just inject it straight into her blood? She probably wouldn't mind that. And me, with one hand holding Emmrie's wrist, slid the sticky wings plate in front of me and unwrapped a napkin one-handed. I got her cleaned up just in time to hear, "I dot to doe poop! I dot to doe poop!" from Taylor (translation: "I've got to go poop! I've got to go poop!" which could really just mean "potty", but why make the effort choosing the correct word when "poop" seems to get a quicker response?). If I wait even two seconds without saying anything, I've got a mess to clean up, and I had no extra shorts in the diaper bag. As long as I say something, she seems to do alright, so I excitedly said, "Okay! Good job! Let's go! Let's go!" So as I did my best to lick the sticky off my fingers, and grab her arm to hurry, she slid around and off the bench, ran around Emmrie, smiled at the high school kids as she passed, and followed me into the ladies' room. I got her onto the toilet in time, we washed our hands, and I got reprimanded for opening the door to go out. "I do it mytelf!" she told me. So I stepped back and watched her try her hardest to pull the door open. I finally had to grab it and hold it high above her head so she didn't know I was touching it. She was sure proud of herself. What a big girl. She excitedly jumped back onto the bench and Neil congratulated her on her success. He was feeding Emmrie pieces of his fries and squirting straw-fulls of my water into her mouth just to keep her quiet, since the pacifier we brought somehow kept ending up on the floor. She was getting wet and pastey. It was awesome. Neil had left three sticky wings on my plate for me to finish, and I sat down to eat them again. And, by the way, do they add milk to the ranch to make it last longer, or what? It was so stinkin runny! Poor Taylor, who still has to concentrate on her aim, had a stream of ranch from her plate to her mouth, across the table, on her lap, and all over her face. I had to clean her up fast each time she took a new bite, because somehow she would end up with ranch on her elbow, her shoulder, or her hair. Every napkin was unwrapped and stained with either sticky sauce or ranch dressing, and left in a pile between Taylor and me on the table. Where was the waitress? I needed more napkins. And Neil needed a refill on his strawberry lemonade. Not even two sticky wings later, Taylor chirped up, "I dot to doe poop adain!" Are you serious?! We just sat down! I'm hungry! Let me at least finish my wing! But she had drank a lot of pop, thoughts of a blatter infection flashed through my mind, and I wasn't about to find out the hard way whether she was serious or not, so I licked my fingers and grabbed her to slide her quickly off the bench and around Emmrie once again. She smiled at the high school kids, and skipped right to the bathroom, all-too familiar with the back half of the restaurant. After she was done, and after washing her hands, she again struggled to open the bathroom door. So, two minutes later we were back on our bench, and I tried to finish my wings as I sopped up ranch and ketchup on Taylor. And did I mention that she doesn't like to sit still? She was climbing all over the diaper bag, standing on the bench, sitting on the table, climbing on my lap, reaching over my plate, grabbing all the napkins. Where was the waitress? I needed this sticky wing plate off this tiny table so I could breathe! And some more napkins. I finally got to my meal, a needs-two-hands-to-eat chicken sandwich. As it dripped all over my hands and down my wrists, I fended off almost every lunge that Emmrie tried at my plate. She's quick, too. Forget trying to get the ketchup for my fries. I just ate the few that I could, plain. Emmrie, I've mentioned before, is very loud. Very loud. She loves to scream to get a reaction. And she got quite a few reactions. It's hard to tell when a scream will all of a sudden pop out. I would clamp my hand right over her mouth, just as heads would turn towards us. The high school kids behind her smiled and giggled. They were very nice when I appologized, and they said, "Don't be sorry. She's cute." Yeah, she's the entertainment. Well, I think they all were. Kortney, I must say, was actually very good this whole time. How did I end up between the hardest two? Neil gave Emmrie a whole fry to hold to keep her busy long enough for me to take some decent bites of my food. I figured he'd done that earlier this evening, so I wasn't too concerned. Until I see her dig her fingers down her throat to make that gag reflex kick in. Neil looked at me like, "are you going to do something?" but I could see the fry, and she was breathing, so I calmly helped her dig it out, and we went back to eating after she coughed and sputtered a bit. Not even halfway through my sandwich, the waitress came out with the ice cream pie. There she was. Could I please have some more napkins? Thank you for taking all of our trash out of Emmrie's reach! Just as she returned with the napkins, that crazy belimic child, obviously bored and full of french fries, decided to empty her stomache the fast way. She stuck those little fingers down her throat and it all came out. All over her shirt, her pants, the table, her chair, and the floor. Good thing we had four more napkins. I didn't bother with the floor. Then, just as I'm finishing up, I hear to my left (no joke), "I dot to doe poop adain!" So, I put my foot down. No way. You're on a vinyl bench. You can just pee your pants. I'm going to eat my sandwich, and then I'm going to eat that pie, and I'm going to slouch for a second, and you can pee right now for all I care. She couldn't possibly have enough in her bladder to do too much damage. Thankfully she reconsidered, and never did have an accident. She kept dipping her chicken in the ranch, and I kept cleaning her up. Finally I stopped, looked at Neil, and loudly whispered, "IF we ever take these girls to dinner again, you get to sit by her." He just leaned back in his chair and laughed at me. So then she tried to open her little bag of cookies for dessert. I didn't even mention that she ate maybe three fries, and just licked the ranch off her chicken fingers. So, no way was she getting the cookies. I put them in the diaper bag. She got them out. Twice. Finally, after I hid them good, she crawled under the table to Neil and sat on his lap. She didn't even want the pie, just daddy's lap. I was so glad to finally finish my sandwich. I didn't even try to finish the fries. I grabbed a spoon, one of four that the waitress set on the plate within Emmrie's reach next to the pie, and started to dig in. Emmrie did, too. She got hold of a spoon with chocolate syrup on it, and slid her hand all the way down the handle. Since she was now already choclatey, I let her keep the spoon. She figured out how to hold the spoon end, and hit the handle end on the table like a drumstick, and that got reactions, too. She loved it. Nothing else kept her happy, and we would soon be gone, so I gave up and just ate my pie. We paid the bill and snuck out of there quickly. I was so glad to be gone. So much for dinner out. As we pulled onto the road, Neil asked what I wanted to do now. I glanced over at the movie theater and said, "Well, I would suggest a movie, but not tonight." He could tell I was done. We rented a movie, came home, put the girls to bed, and watched it together. Dinner at a restaurant with the kids is so overrated!