Last night we went out to dinner to celebrate the fact that I didn’t feel like cooking. We went to Logan’s and the parking lot was jam packed. I guess a lot of other people were celebrating too! Anyway, as we waited in the peanut-shell strewn lobby we bumped into a guy that a friend of mine dated when we were in medical school. Of course, I was thrilled to show off my baby girl in all her cuteness. He was very polite. We made small talk about his MD/PhD program and my new job as teacher. All the while, I had the distinct feeling that I was being pitied.
On a side note, I think that if the tables were turned I would probably pity someone in my shoes too. But that’s neither here nor there. I really LOVE my job and I don’t care if people pity me. It’s a waste of your time and energy though, just FYI.
Anyway, back to the story. So, the waitress called out our name and we followed her with our sleeping beauty in tow. And, of course, she sat us one table over from Mr. PityParty. Wonderful.
We ordered in half-whispers, hoping against hope that there would be no teary sobs accompanying our dinner. For some reason I’m self-conscious about her crying around aquaintances. I’m fine in front of strangers and close friends. But not the middle people.
Bri slept fabulously. And then our food came. It seemed like she opened one eye as the plate was hovering in the air above the table and opened the other as soon as it touched down. No sooner had I picked up my fork, than she started wailing.
So I did what any good young Mommy does. I fumbled over her carseat buckles, sweating like a pig. And then I yanked gently pulled her to me and patted her back. She calmed down and I nervously glanced over my shoulder to see if Mr. PityParty was gaping at us open mouthed.
I shifted her from one arm to the other and as I did I watched in horrifying slow motion as her tiny little hand went kerplunk into my side tub of ranch dressing. And then the tub toppled off the table covering both of us in white ranch dressing.
Apparently I was the only one who saw this occur. And, to everyone else’s credit, I must admit that when you see a young mom covered in white goop and holding a baby you just don’t automatically think, ‘Oh the klutzy baby must have spilled ranch dressing everywhere.’
A waitress appeared out of nowhere with a wet rag but she stood there hesitating to clean up what I can only imagine she perceived as spit-up. I was dripping and staring at her. She held the rag, inches above the table staring at Bri. And Hubbsy didn’t know what to do so he dove into the mess with his napkin, all the while apologizing profusely as he wiped the table. It took forever for people to actually start cleaning up the baby and me.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that when the cold slimy dressing landed on Bri she immediately resumed her wailing. And kept it up as we dashed for the door and changed her diaper and clothes in the parking lot.
So in the midst of all this chaos, as we were ducking and running towards the door, my Hubby leaned in towards me and said, “I feel so bad leaving all the mess on the floor.” Yes, he did say that out loud (He has no clue what’s coming in a few months, I know…) and yes, we were crunching the peanut shells beneath our shoes the whole time while sprinting away from the scene of the crime.
“Don’t worry, honey,” I called over my shoulder as I burst through the door, “this will make great fodder for my blog!”
And I have a feeling that there will probably be lots more where that came from.