A normal meal consists of youngest screaming as soon as we are seated, because the awful high chair monster has once again embraced him. So, I cave. Yes, I know it is my fault the child screams. He owns me...I am fully aware. He has trained me well. I hold the wriggly bug during the meal, but he always escapes. He is like a bird, running over to our table for bites when he wants them. Otherwise, he spends meal time greeting every other patron and saying hello and shaking hands. I swear, youngest will be a politician. The longer we stay, more of a chance of a meltdown. By the time entrees are served, we are on borrowed time. We attempt to eat, but we have to dodge flying sippy cups and chunks of food. We hurry through our meal, wolfing our food down like starved dogs. We get our check and pay, tipping generously because there is no way I would ever want to deal with our shenanigans. Gather the kiddos and head for the door, it feels like all eyes are on us as we depart. It is usually not our finest moment.
I usually have delusions of grandeur. These far fetched day dreams that our outings are going to go without incident or injury. By the time we make it back home, I'm humbled to say the least. If everyone is speaking to each other, it is a great day. In the end, we try our best. We make memories. We have fun. In retrospect, it is always funny.
So, the next time you are staying at a hotel and you hear a baby screaming at midnight, that just might be our youngest child keeping you up. We are really very sorry, and we are trying our very best to make it stop. Everything that is legal, anyhow. Cut us some slack and remember you get to go home to silence. We don't.