Ronan eating in his natural habitat.
If you’re a
parent, you know at some point that your kid’s going to get into trouble.
Perhaps even embarrass you a little. Perhaps suddenly make you the center of
attention. Maybe you worry about that. And then it happens a few more times and
you completely forget about embarrassment.
Mother’s Day was
celebrated with a group of friends, organized by Kizz, at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. Ronan came along,
perhaps as living testament to Terry’s motherhood, which earned her a free
glass of champagne, which she passed on to another mother who actually drinks
that stuff.
Even without
alcohol we (he) wrecked that joint. As in plate-throwing, mashed-potatoes
flinging, drink-spilling hellzapoppin’ damage. Our first.
Still working on
walking, he loves to have someone hold him up and walk around. I walked him
around, Kizz walked him around (twice! Go Kizz!!) and Terry walked him around
(I think?). This did not alleviate his energy in the least. The appearance of
another baby did not completely consume his attention either, which is usually
good for an hour of staring.
Brunch that day
was delicious, and I’m in favor of any place that serves giant glasses of Dr
Pepper. I had a really good omelette, and while I didn’t try the other dishes
(breakfast pork and all that) they looked good. We ordered a side order of
mashed potatoes for Ronan, and I had several bites of that, and that was very
good, so I approve of the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, and so must half of New York,
because that half was waiting to get inside.
Ronan also had
organic Cheerios, many of which died quiet deaths on the floor; and a jar of
fruit puree. We tried to pick up as many dead Cheerios as we could, but still
some remained under foot. Of course, this was done mostly by Terry, who
actually got on the floor (those Cheerios don’t pick themselves up, people) who
also tried to clean up those Cheerios stomped into oat dust. There was also a
yogurt drink. The staff seemed very nice but probably were wishing we were
actual cowgirls, who are probably cleaner patrons.
My first error
was serving Ronan a plate of mashed potatoes without holding onto the plate of
mashed potatoes. What was I thinking? I’m not sure. I realized almost
immediately (too late) that that was a bad idea. In the 4.5 milliseconds it
took between the time I released the plate and the realization of what I had
done, he airlifted the plate high enough and far enough to land on the floor.
It shattered loudly. Mashed potatoes flew far. The shock of the death of the
plate, the sadness at losing his plate of mashed potatoes caused some tears.
Some of the other patrons took notice. We offered twice to pay for the plate
but were turned down.
So we had the
bright idea to just put the mashed potatoes on the table itself. Of course, the
problem with that is two-fold: Ronan has fistfuls of mashed potatoes (it’s
great fun to squeeze mashed potatoes out of your closed fist, try it) and
instead of an isolated high chair like at home, everything is more compressed
and within reach. So there was a Mom that not only ended up with mashed
potatoes on her brunch platter, but on her sweater. A backpack got a mashed
potatoes surprise for the owner.Mashed potatoes joined the remaining cheerios
in dying nobly on the floor. And, for good measure, mashed potatoes also were
stored in the nooks and crannies of the high chair for the next baby. (It’s
actually impressive how much mashed potatoes can be stored in institutional high
chairs. Who knew?)
Then, to top it
off, Ronan suddenly realized he had the strength to move the table. Now we
know, and those of you with or without kids, this may be obvious. But we’re
just learning to deal with toddlerhood, so the thought that a kid in a high
chair is strong enough to grab and move the table was a little bit surprising
to us. A drinking glass (32 ounces, nothing in the Cowgirl Hall of Fame is
small), thankfully full of water instead of sticky soda, died an ignoble death
trapped between the edges of the two tables pushed together. It was plastic so
it just bounced around, spilling water all over the feet of one of Terry’s
friends.
Okay, certainly
a one-year-old being able to grab and move a table, especially one seated in a
high chair, is impressive. I would have thought the high chair would have moved
instead of the table. But as Terry requested even more napkins to wipe up this
latest mini-disaster while I comforted Ronan, my thoughts were: 1.) Terry is
really fast at cleaning up spills. I need to volunteer to clean up more. 2.)
Are people looking at us? Ah, the hell with them.
Yet another
mother at the table offered her supply of wipes to clean up the ensuing mess of
wet cheerios, mashed potatoes, and fruit puree that Ronan was attempting to
squirrel away in the high chair and his pants and shirt (perhaps for winter, I’m
not sure). I took them and used them, and then realized that of course we have
our own wipes; why the hell wasn’t I using those?
But this was one
of those cleanups that required more than just a wipe. When I picked up Ronan
out of the high chair after the first of what became three attempts to remove
the mashed potatoes/puree/cheerios/yogurt drink mixture, I suddenly realized
that, like The Blob, I was
now covered in mashed
potatoes/puree/cheerios/yogurt drink, and what’s more I was wearing a black
T-shirt, so it really showed. So now I needed a wipe. Or four. Finally on the
third cleanup attempt I was able to separate infant son from infant son food.
Finally, the
required diaper changing was hampered by the seeming lack of changing table in the
cowboy’s room. Apparently cowboys do not change diapers. There was a changing
table in the Cowgirl’s room, but it was Mother’s Day and Terry had already
appointed herself floor cleaner repeatedly, so I changed Ronan on the bench
outside the bathroom. Apparently Ronan does not like hard wooden benches for
diaper changings, or perhaps he’s just very modest about being partially nude
in a high-traffic area; he did not enjoy the diaper changing. It’s possible
Cowgirl Hall of Fame has a changing table inside the men’s stalls, but I didn’t
think to look in there until Terry mentioned where the changing table was
located in the cowgirl’s room. Who puts a changing table in a stall? That seems
a very small place to change a baby to me.
Eventually,
after everyone had ignored the mashed potato tornado at the end of the table in
favor of his all-charming, all-winning personality, paid the bill and headed on
their way to their other Mother’s Day activities. We hit a church flea market
and looked at new baby carriers.
The thing is, he
wasn’t really that bad. He did just what comes naturally to him, and it was
mostly a freak series of accidents. Okay, now we know that he has the power to
move restaurant tables. We won’t ever give him a plate of mashed potatoes. We
will buy more sippy cups. We’re learning.
I’m sure the
staff of the Cowgirl Hall of Fame made additional cleanup around our table,
possibly involving a mop. And I think that we were probably not the worst
encounter with a baby they had suffered, maybe even not the worst they
encountered that day. Thanks for being so understanding, Cowgirl Hall of Fame!
So, we’ve packed
a rubber placemat (doesn’t break) into the diaper bag. And, more wipes. And
some other stuff. We’re ready for toddlerhood. Or so we think…
