Post-children, a restaurant is no longer Utopia; it’s been transformed into a grueling challenge that must be survived.
shit no one tells you
Just as you are celebrating your survival of Baby Days by purging all things breastfeeding and binky, your sweet child is quietly becoming possessed by the devil. Or, as some like to call it, “becoming a real live person.” You forgot that most real live people are a-holes, didn’t you? You really should have taken that into greater consideration before you went and acquired one of your own.
We are quite proud of ourselves that we ordered this gift so far ahead of Christmas Day. We will assemble it well before the normal Christmas Eve Frantic Night of Assembly and No Sleep, and we will feel far superior to all the other parents who aren’t as smart as we are. God, we are good at this parenting thing.
The day itself pretty much sums up parenting: lots of snot and tears, punctuated by little tiny moments of bliss.
Before you have kids, when you see a child having a tantrum in a public place, you likely silently judge the parent, thinking: “Get it together, lady. Your kid is a disaster.” After you have kids, if you see a mom dealing with a “disaster” in the grocery store, your instinct will likely be to head to the liquor aisle to buy her a bottle of wine. And a straw.