Maturity

We probably should have headed home when The Lad pulled his sweaty little hand out of mine and laid down on the boardwalk at the Oceanographic Center. We had been there since mid-morning, playing with the hermit crabs and sea slugs in the touch tanks, splashing in the stingray pool and hopping from one educational game spot to another. The sun was hot and the humidity made The Lad's hair curl up in ringlets under his baseball cap.

The plan was to hang out long enough to see the sea turtle program at 11:30 then head to lunch. When The Lad tried to nap right in the middle of the walkway in the sun, we gave up on the sea turtles -- they were hiding out in a corner of the lagoon, and that walk was more than any of us could take -- but figured we still could do lunch. We didn't have much food at home anyway, because we had skipped grocery shopping in favor of the Oceanographic Center. The husband and I figured once everyone got cooled off in the car's air-conditioning, we all would be fine to stop for a quick, early lunch.

It was the worst restaurant experience we've ever had with the boys. I've written before that being able to take the kids to a restaurant without causing a scene is one of the things I pride myself on as a mother. But this trip was a mess.

The Boy, excited and talkative after petting so many sea creatures, bounced in the booth and talked too loudly. The Lad was just pissed, squealing and flailing. He didn't want to sit in the highchair, didn't want to sit in my lap, was desperately thirsty, but smacked the cup away from his mouth. No less than three pieces of silverware ended up on the floor. We finally got him settled down only for something else -- I have no idea what -- to set him off, and my full cup of water and ice spilled across the table and into the husband's lap.

I swooped The Lad up and took him outside for a walk to calm down -- both of us. When we went back into the restaurant, the boys' food came, and they both settled down to eat. By the time our food came, The Lad was bored again and refusing to sit in his highchair. Both boys ended up in the booth next to me, swishing fries stolen off our plates into ketchup that they smeared on their faces.

We were the only customers in the restaurant for most of our meal, thankfully, but I kept apologizing to the poor waitress. We left a big tip.

Somewhere in the chaos, there was a quiet moment and I told the husband, "I would say something right now -- meaning, LOOK! They're behaving -- only I don't want to jinx it."

On the way home, the husband said he had had a similar thought about me in the middle of the mayhem -- LOOK! You're not throwing a tantrum to rival the kids' tantrums -- only he didn't want to jinx me either.

Apparently, I'm maturing.