Here’s the deal. Why is it that going out to dinner with an actual newborn, and all that that entails, seems like a piece ‘o’ the cake compared to eating out with frickin’ toddlers? Toddlers from hell, I might add. H-E-L-L. All caps. Yeah, I said it.
I remember going out to eat with Nub shortly after he was born. Which meant the ginormous diaper bag, eighty-four changes of clothes, thirty-six diapers, six bottles, and god knows what else crammed into that thing. Can you say first time Mama?! Y’all know what I’m talkin’ about!!! Then there is the lugging around of the carseat. Which almost never fits into a booth. And forget putting it on a chair. Not my preshus baby! So you have to place it in one of those thingys. Which then gets you dirty looks from all the waiters close to your table, because who the hell can get around those monstrosities? Then you get to scarf down your food. Or bring it home. Good times.
I also foolishly remember telling my husband something along the lines of “not being able to wait until the boys were older, because then it would be sooo much easier to take them out to eat”. Suckers. It is so not easier. It might actually be worse.
Next time? My husband and I are going out to eat by ourselves. Where they serve cocktails. And lot’s of ’em.