Diners, Drive-in's and Dear God Why Did I Think We Could Eat in Public?

Sometimes in horror movies there are scenes where there is a mass exodus of horrified people fleeing a building.  Some fall and are trampled, left helpless in the wake of the ensuing terror.  And this is often how I imagine buildings must look once me and my pre-schoolers enter.

A little background.  I like to keep busy. Constantly moving.  Gavin is just like me.  But Gabe, my poor helpless three year old, would rather take life at a more leisurely pace, like his Daddy. Unfortunately we travel as a team.  This weekend, for example, started with the barber shop, a pre-school promotion ceremony and swimming on Friday.  Saturday was a full day in a gold mining town panning for gold, climbing rocks, and inhaling sarsparilla and candy.  And today, well today was started with a parade but also included the necessary grocery shopping for the week.

The boys did very well at the parade, all things considered (meaning my five year old HATES fire trucks and apparently my three year old is terrified of Smokey the Bear).  And as a reward I thought maybe we should have lunch before grocery shopping. We ventured to their favorite diner for what has become a pretty predictable meal, in as much as I know what they will order.  But what is never predictable is how they will behave.  And after the weekend we had up to that point, Gabe had reached the point of exhaustion where children buzz like humming birds, just functioning on pure nervous energy but past the point of rational speech or maintaining indoor tones.  I did not realize that before we were seated.  I apologize to the patrons who were seated around us.  But really folks, it's a family establishment. So get over it already, or eat at a fancy restaurant.

After pinning Gabriel inside the booth and seating Gavin nicely across from us I ordered their usual. Scrambled eggs for Gabe, spaghetti and meatballs for Gavin.  I realized that Gabriel was rocking back and forth on his knees and talking to his coloring picture.  The language didn't sound like English.  Fear crept over me.  I shot a glance at Gavin, who was holding up well and coloring nicely.  I figured that as long as he was just whispering in tongues Gabe would probably be ok.

Food was delivered.  As I cut up Gavin's spaghetti in to non-choking and thus regurgitating in public lengths (see, I've learned) I heard a slurping and realized Gabriel had allocated my soda. Suddenly the whites were visible around the entirety of his eyes.  His smile was more of a terrifying snarl.  And he was getting louder. 

The meal devolved rapidly, I'm not going to lie.  I'm not sure at what point Gabe got some of Gavin's spaghetti, but I was relieved to realize it was just sauce on my arm and not blood when I caught a renegade fork in the melee that was fine family dining.  And how did I get a dusty footprint across my breast? Don't know.  Don't really care anymore. 

Here's what shocks me.  Elderly patrons coo at my children like they have wings and halos.  But I recently discovered from our barber that the trick behind this is turning off hearing aids, at which point the hooligans become adorable.  So we have that going for us.  And we never have to wait for a check. Ever.  Which is the good news.  The bad news was we still had to grocery shop.

Prepare for another panicked mob.