"It'll be fine," I told your dad.
"But it never is," he replied.
"He'll be good this time," I said.
Oh, but you were not, little boy. The three of us went to a restaurant tonight, a casual Indian place in Jackson Heights. We sat down. We ordered. And then my sweet baby boy was replaced by a crazy monster child. Your dad knew this was coming. We've seen it happen before in other restaurants. But I'm an optimist. I always try to believe that everything will be okay, that people are good and that children will be well-behaved when they should be. But what I call optimism, your dad calls naivete and tonight, he was right.
You screamed because you didn't want to sit in your highchair. You screamed when we took the menu away from you but then you threw it on the floor when we gave it back to you. You screamed because you wanted to play with my earring and I wouldn't let you. You generally like Indian food but the only thing you would eat tonight was the papadam, so you basically had a bunch of chips for dinner. You spit out the idli. The samosa. The uttapam. And you smashed it all in your hands and wiped it on the table, your clothes and my jacket. When you became bored with playing with your food, you started crying and kicking the table. You made such a scene that when the waiter came to take our dessert order, he didn't ask us, "What would you like for dessert?" but just told us matter-of-factly, "You can take dessert to go."
You screamed because you didn't want to sit in your highchair. You screamed when we took the menu away from you but then you threw it on the floor when we gave it back to you. You screamed because you wanted to play with my earring and I wouldn't let you. You generally like Indian food but the only thing you would eat tonight was the papadam, so you basically had a bunch of chips for dinner. You spit out the idli. The samosa. The uttapam. And you smashed it all in your hands and wiped it on the table, your clothes and my jacket. When you became bored with playing with your food, you started crying and kicking the table. You made such a scene that when the waiter came to take our dessert order, he didn't ask us, "What would you like for dessert?" but just told us matter-of-factly, "You can take dessert to go."
So we took it to go, as we will be doing with all of our restaurant meals from now on because we are never eating in a restaurant with you ever again.
Love,
Mom
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