We Did This to Ourselves
Louis CK says he knows why we can't resist constantly whipping out our phones, even while driving. It's to avoid having to feel things like doubt and fear and disappointment. That's probably why my seven-year-old Dana is glued to my wife's phone tonight. I make him shut it off, but I can't blame him. We are in a restaurant, and everything kind of sucks. There have been many successes with taking Tess out to eat. But this isn't one of them.
We can't be certain what Tess can visually process, but she does well in familiar places. Ten minutes from our house is our go-to family restaurant, a tavern with good lighting, decent food, and a waitress who knows Tess. Even when crowded, it stays fairly quiet, which is key for Tess, who can't deal with noise. We can't go there tonight, though. It's packed because it's Valentine's Day (duh). The hostess tells us it'll be 45 minutes. Which is a dealbreaker, since the kids are already hungry.
Our backup option is a pizza place. The lighting is poor and the dining room is loud. Within seconds of putting Tess in the high chair, she begins violently bucking forward and backward as though she is part of an Olympic event rather than a meal.
In restaurants you can't leave anything within her reach or she will pick it up and try to eat it. So we have to completely clear her reach radius of napkins, silverware, menus, salt and pepper shakers, and the crayons and paper they bring for kids. She's like Homer in the all-you-can-eat seafood episode of the Simpsons ("'Tis not a [girl], 'tis a remorseless eating machine!") Unfortunately--and this is why the boy is miserable--the table is small, and now the rest of us are crammed onto one side. Our drinks come and there's nowhere to put them. We've ordered a large pizza, which requires a lengthy conference with our waitress, to discuss all aspects of restructuring our plate configuration, in order to make room for it but still have it away from Tess.
Nothing on the menu is good for her. She's dairy-free and gluten-free. Even at the tavern, she hasn't done well lately with waiting for food to arrive, so luckily we've brought an entire dinner for her, in her school lunchbox. She finishes it before our pizza comes. Once we dig into our slices, she begins yelling. The people around us start to notice.
I tell myself how good this is that she's making her feelings known. For many months of her life she was almost catatonic, not communicating or responding to sounds. She would have sat in the high chair, numbly chewing, and we would have had no idea what she liked or didn't like. In the past year, though, she's awakened. She only has a couple of words ("more" and "Mom"), but she lets us know with other noises when she's annoyed. And now she's shouting so loudly that we need to leave. Immediately.
Our waitress is nowhere to be found. "Dane," I say, "keep cool and we'll watch some olympics when we get home." He settles, but we're on borrowed time. Alas, there is no placating Tess when she's like this. You can't discipline her, talk her down, or promise her something in exchange for good behavior. We're constantly talking to her, but who knows what she understands? After all, she doesn't even always respond to her name.
After a few minutes, we resort to asking another waitress to get our check for us. My wife has to shout to be heard over Tess's yells. We already have our coats on. The debris we've left under Tess's chair will require a steam cleaner and a team of at least four people to clean up. As I sign the check, I imagine what the waitstaff will do next time we come in here. One might say, "Oh no, these people? They destroy this place." And another might answer, "Yeah, but that makes them feel bad and tip well."
Back in the car, my wife and I ask each other what we always ask after a crash-and-burn dinner: (1) did you even taste your food? and (2) why on earth did we think this would be easier than staying home?
It's tempting to imagine an alternate universe, in which we have a typical four-year-old. My mind sometimes goes there, and I see what that dinner is like. Tess orders from the menu and tells us what she likes. She lets us know when she's ready to leave, but we're able to reason with her and buy a few minutes while we wait for the check. My kids are talking to each other. Maybe they're fighting and we have to separate them.
But I love this Tess, the one we have. These are the truths, and they are welcome ones: she is a typical four-year-old, because she got mad when she couldn't have the pizza we were all eating, she didn't like the lighting or the noise and wanted to leave, and once we were home she was happy again.
We can't be certain what Tess can visually process, but she does well in familiar places. Ten minutes from our house is our go-to family restaurant, a tavern with good lighting, decent food, and a waitress who knows Tess. Even when crowded, it stays fairly quiet, which is key for Tess, who can't deal with noise. We can't go there tonight, though. It's packed because it's Valentine's Day (duh). The hostess tells us it'll be 45 minutes. Which is a dealbreaker, since the kids are already hungry.
Our backup option is a pizza place. The lighting is poor and the dining room is loud. Within seconds of putting Tess in the high chair, she begins violently bucking forward and backward as though she is part of an Olympic event rather than a meal.
In restaurants you can't leave anything within her reach or she will pick it up and try to eat it. So we have to completely clear her reach radius of napkins, silverware, menus, salt and pepper shakers, and the crayons and paper they bring for kids. She's like Homer in the all-you-can-eat seafood episode of the Simpsons ("'Tis not a [girl], 'tis a remorseless eating machine!") Unfortunately--and this is why the boy is miserable--the table is small, and now the rest of us are crammed onto one side. Our drinks come and there's nowhere to put them. We've ordered a large pizza, which requires a lengthy conference with our waitress, to discuss all aspects of restructuring our plate configuration, in order to make room for it but still have it away from Tess.
Nothing on the menu is good for her. She's dairy-free and gluten-free. Even at the tavern, she hasn't done well lately with waiting for food to arrive, so luckily we've brought an entire dinner for her, in her school lunchbox. She finishes it before our pizza comes. Once we dig into our slices, she begins yelling. The people around us start to notice.I tell myself how good this is that she's making her feelings known. For many months of her life she was almost catatonic, not communicating or responding to sounds. She would have sat in the high chair, numbly chewing, and we would have had no idea what she liked or didn't like. In the past year, though, she's awakened. She only has a couple of words ("more" and "Mom"), but she lets us know with other noises when she's annoyed. And now she's shouting so loudly that we need to leave. Immediately.
Our waitress is nowhere to be found. "Dane," I say, "keep cool and we'll watch some olympics when we get home." He settles, but we're on borrowed time. Alas, there is no placating Tess when she's like this. You can't discipline her, talk her down, or promise her something in exchange for good behavior. We're constantly talking to her, but who knows what she understands? After all, she doesn't even always respond to her name.
After a few minutes, we resort to asking another waitress to get our check for us. My wife has to shout to be heard over Tess's yells. We already have our coats on. The debris we've left under Tess's chair will require a steam cleaner and a team of at least four people to clean up. As I sign the check, I imagine what the waitstaff will do next time we come in here. One might say, "Oh no, these people? They destroy this place." And another might answer, "Yeah, but that makes them feel bad and tip well."
Back in the car, my wife and I ask each other what we always ask after a crash-and-burn dinner: (1) did you even taste your food? and (2) why on earth did we think this would be easier than staying home?
It's tempting to imagine an alternate universe, in which we have a typical four-year-old. My mind sometimes goes there, and I see what that dinner is like. Tess orders from the menu and tells us what she likes. She lets us know when she's ready to leave, but we're able to reason with her and buy a few minutes while we wait for the check. My kids are talking to each other. Maybe they're fighting and we have to separate them.
But I love this Tess, the one we have. These are the truths, and they are welcome ones: she is a typical four-year-old, because she got mad when she couldn't have the pizza we were all eating, she didn't like the lighting or the noise and wanted to leave, and once we were home she was happy again.
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