Motherhood. Sometimes You Just Have to Wing it, You Know?

Taking the kids out to dinner is always an adventure (especially if a trip to the washroom is involved. especially if that trip to the washroom is with Aidan, who doesn’t understand that the people in the stalls can hear his running commentary on how loud their pee is), but sometimes it’s fun. And lately, it’s been going pretty smoothly, so last night we decided to go to Montana’s. I’m thinking it all would have been okay if Liam had been in a better mood.
Hmmm…where to begin?

Nah, let’s just sum up. It’s quicker.

Aidan: quietly did a puzzle. YAY, Aidan! And also? That kid is amazing with puzzles. His brain works good.

Caleb: loud. Hyper. Loud and hyper. Loudandhyperandloud. OhmyGODdoesthischildevercalmdown? Killmenow.

Liam: Liam is 19 months old. Liam wants to do everything himself. Liam gets bored in the time it takes to squash a bug. Not that I would squash a bug. I’m just saying. So yeah. Liam did these things:

-threw pieces of salmon on the floor
-threw pieces of chicken on the floor
-threw pieces of everything (including my brain, which, at some point during the dinner, fell out of my head) on the floor
-yelled
-yelled loudly
-screamed
-refused to eat
-tried to climb out of his chair
-REPEATEDLY (read: IN A CONSTANT MANNER) tried to climb out of his chair
-threw crayons at people. Not just family members either, folks
-grabbed my fork and, in a fantastically graceful display of chaos, swept it across his plate, thereby causing his rice to rain down on neighbouring guests

Dudes, I was tired. I was not enjoying my salmon. I was not enjoying my life. THEN! It happened.

What I neglected to mention in my list of stuff up there is that Liam also cried the whole meal because he wanted to drink his milk by himself. With nobody else holding it. But see, they give the kid this big plastic cup with a flimsy plastic lid (barely) stuck on top. This means IMPENDING DOOM, as anyone with kids knows. So I held the damn cup while he tried to take it from me. Sometimes he drank some milk. Most times he pushed it away with such ferocity that only my cat-like reflexes saved the day. During one such episode (he points at the milk and screams, I hold the straw up to his mouth, he screams some more…), he got a brilliant idea. He decided to slam his hands into the back of the cup, thrusting it toward him, and thusly gaining control over the cup.

Except that the violent action ALSO included the dislodgement of the flimsy plastic lid and the consequential sloshing of milk ALL. OVER. LIAM.

Being the mother of three boys, I am an expert in these types of situations. I calmly put the cup on the table, and grabbed my napkin to sop up the mess. I waited to feel anger that I would also expertly suppress. It didn’t come.

I glanced at my boy, who was miserable and crying, milk dripping from his hair and eyelashes, snot dripping from his nose, his shirt soaked. Then I glanced at Jim.

And I lost it.

I laughed so hard I thought I’d pee.

People at the other tables must’ve thought I was crazy…and maybe I was. But it was funny. It was funny because the kid DESERVED IT.

I am a horrible mother.

But dammit, that was a good laugh.

And he didn’t try to grab the cup anymore after that…not that there was much milk left…