Diplomacy used to be my gig.
I took etiquette classes. I know when to use the shrimp fork. I know when to drink Port wine. Hell, I even have a leather bound version of Emily Post’s Etiquette.
I made a career of being the quintessential Stepford Wife. I couldn’t make waves at a water park.
Yet, I am persona non grata at at least 40 different dining establishments in five different states. I’m not even going to mention grocery stores, pharmacies, doctor’s offices, post offices, Buddhist temples, and swap meets.
On Friday, P requested “mall and eat pizza”. Because even I’m not crazy enough to bring a three year old with autism who is recovering from strep throat and an ear infection to the mall on Black Friday I had the ingenuis idea to go to the eat-in Pizza Hut in town. I hadn’t set foot in a Pizza Hut since the days of the “Book-it” program. Remember that? Where you get a free personal pan pizza for every book you read? Good times.
He’s sitting like a “big boy” now, which is good since I was getting tired of the “are you serious?” looks I was getting when I requested a high chair. Until Friday we’d only done “big boy eating” at Red Robin (where they know us). It usually entails crawling under the booth back and forth between Mommy and Daddy’s side, not much eating, and lots of food on the floor.
I thought I had it all figured out, though. I downloaded some kid’s applications (like shapes, first words, coloring) for the iPod. Probably not the most socially engaging activity, but he couldn’t be happier. It’s his constant companion when we leave the house. The iPod is the single best investment I have ever made. I hear you can listen to music on it too.
Except this time, the battery was dead. Thwap! Way to go, Mommy!
You see where this is going. iPod goes sailing. Salad, and extra plates, are chucked onto the floor (thanks Follow That Bird), the bread-sticks are HOT “no, not hot, it’s cold Mommy. I need to clean it, cuh-lean it, CLEAN IT”. Somehow the word “hut” became offensive and no longer can be uttered or, for that matter, pretty much any word that might have an H, U, or T in it. (Three days later, he’s still gets all PTSD when we say the word “HUT”). The pizza was taking like, I dunno, three hundred and forty-five hours to arrive. We went for a walk, then another, then we let him run around the restaurant while we took turns chasing him.
Fail. Epic. I’m surprised the windows didn’t shatter from the shrieks. He was rolling on the ground. I tried to pick him up, he flailed and clocked me in the nose. I literally expected the police to show up at any moment – and we would’ve welcomed the extra hands.
Thirty-four dollars and three personal pan pizzas in take away boxes later (seriously – THIRTY-FOUR dollars – they should bring back the Book-It program) we made it home, where P enjoyed his pizza. He even asked to go back to the pizza store “tomorrow”. Oh.my.God…as if!
Suffice to say, we added Pizza “Word That Shall Not be Uttered” to our ever expanding list of places we won’t be returning to.
Today, I thought I’d let Daddy rest and venture to the mall with the boy. I had some Ugg-ish boots to exchange (cause I’m all cool and trendy like that). It wasn’t very busy, thanks to the economic decline, so I decided to browse the sale rack at Ann Taylor Loft. I took a few things into the dressing room while P did puzzles on the, now fully charged, iPod.
I tried on a pair of pants. And, I swear to you I cannot make this up, my son looked up from the iPod, surveyed me carefully, said “Mommy is fat” and went right back to his puzzle. I am pretty sure I heard a giggle from the next dressing room. I don’t think he actually knows what the word “fat” means. He probably just heard me say it every time once when I was getting dressed and repeated it. Needless to say I didn’t get the pants, because regardless I do value his opinion.
Tomorrow, while he’s at school, I think I might go for a run anyway.