Chicken, With a Side of Circus!

Warning: This post may anger half of my readers.  But since Count Rugen could count my readers on his right hand, it means I will only tick off three people.  There are 6.9 billion people on earth - I can accept ticking off only three of them.

As a server in Northern Virginia, you serve all kinds. All kinds of all kinds.  Politicians, Redskins, the extremely wealthy (Loudoun residents with million dollar homes made of mostly siding and some brick on the front for show, but they don't notice that's so cheap), the original western Loudouners (modest incomes with all brick ranchers), and many, many young families. 

Ah, Northern Virginia's young families.

Most are incredibly nice.  This isn't about their attitudes.  They tip fairly, they aren't always rude.  But boy do they find a way to drive me crazy... it's how they handle their kids.

It's downright weird.  And must be physically and mentally exhausting.  All of the equipment and all of the rules and all of the planning that goes into eating out with their children must drain every ounce of these people.

Here's how it goes:

I see the hostess walking menus, and a gaggle of hungry adults and children, to a table in my section, and I get to work.  I fill a basket with our freshly-baked bread, toss our grated cheese mixture on a plate, grab an oil bottle and head off to the table.  Halfway through the dining room, I stop. 

Because dad is holding one of the squirming children over a high chair while mom tries to fit a literal playground made of cloth into the chair.  A toddler is sliding across the booth reaching for the salt and pepper grinders.  Dad moves the baby to one arm while trying to remove the grinders from the toddler's grasp, and mom announces that she's got the cloth playground securely in the high chair. They place the kicking baby into his squishy, altered seat, and dad sits down. 

I start to move toward the table again, bread set-up in hand, when mom, still standing, asks dad to pass something from the backpack. 

He pulls out a large, square rubber mat and hands it to her.

"Oh dear Lord," I say, returning the bread, freeing myself to check on my other tables.

While walking the dining room, I see mom messing with the mat, trying to stick it on the table without warps, and decide I'm dropping off the bread so at least the toddler can nibble on something other than cracked black pepper. 

I approach the table, make eye contact with the poor toddler and say, "Hi folks, I know you're just settling in, but I know you'll enjoy the bread.  Do you know what you'd like to drink, or do you need a minute?"

Mom looks up at me, half frazzled and sweating as she's now reaching over the table digging for something else in the backpack, because dad's busy rationing the bread.  "Yeah, um, we'll need just a minute."

I come back moments later to find table number 17 transformed into a Wiggles wonderland. A colorful high chair insert clipped with rattles, rings, mirrors. Little Tupperware containers placed just out of reach, filled with Veggie Puffs, and Graduates Yogurt Melts.  The baby would need to be Reed Richard's biological son to reach a single bare spot of the restaurant table.  And the toddler sits next to dad in the booster with his eyes glued to a mini-DVD player, Captain Feathersword dancing away.

It's time to order!  But wait - pass the hand sanitizer, kids!  No Northern Virginia mom is without her pocket-sized hand sanitizer!  If she doesn't bust out the pocket-sized hand sanitizer, you can bet she drove in from Charles Town (like me).

Every, I mean every Northern Virginian child is lactose intolerant with a gluten and nut allergy.  Every last one of them.  Either something is in the water, and we're gonna have to go all Erin Brockovich on The Man, or your child got a frickin' stomach ache one time and you need to simmer the heck down.

At this point, the parents really bring out the weird.  What you'll read below are actual conversations.  Two of them happened this past week.

Mom: "And green beans, I don't want them to have just starch, with no vegetable. May we add green beans?"

Dad Interjects: "Honey, don't forget to ask about the pepper!"

Mom: "Oh, that's right, last time we had the sautéed green beans, there was, like, all this salt and pepper on them.  Uh.  Can we do without seasonings - they're kids!"

Mom: "Is the drink included in the cost of their meal?"

Me: "Yes, that's included."

Mom:  "OK, in that case, they can have milk, BUT they don't get any until the food comes out.  Don't bring the milk out until the food comes out."

Me In My Head:  Should I call Child Protective Services, or is this OK?

Mom: "Are there seeds of ANY kind on the kid's burger bun?  They get stuck in her teeth."

Me In My Head: She gets another set, you know.

Me:  "And what can I get you all to drink this evening?"

Dad:  "No drinks, we're OK."

Me:  "Would you like waters?"

Dad: "Oh no, we don't want any glass on the table, you know, with the kids here."

I am not joking.

Look, I can barely stand to eat with my children - I mean, they are so messy it often gags me. But I let them be human.  They do not get a playground and a suctioned plastic table cloth, blindingly-bright toys and a movie. Besides the fact that it's ridiculous, I just don't have the energy for all that crap.

It's simple, really.  We walk into the restaurant, sit down, eat. We try to keep Steel from knocking over a glass (been unsuccessful), and try to keep Knight from throwing 60% of his food on the floor  (been unsuccessful), and have a slightly enjoyable dinner.  "Dinner" is often defined by Steel eating only french fries and Knight drinking ketchup.  As long as I get me some Chicken Bryan and good calamari, I don't care what they eat when we're out.

They sometimes even touch the table.

They.

Will.

Live.