I have to be very careful when it comes broadcasting what a good baby Dylan is because once I acknowledge his great behavior it disbands into a black hole. Yup, yesterday was a doozy. It's as if the little monster knew that I was singing him praises and decided it was high time to throw me a curve ball. Last night I was supposed to take Dylan on a dinner date with a couple of friends but after picking him up from my mom's house it was evident that he had his own agenda consisting of pure fuss. I could blame his crap attitude on teething but that's too easy. I'm convinced I am dealing with an anti-social master manipulator of the utmost sophistication whom was dead set on playing with toys in his room.
So, what's wrong with me? Why cant I take a whiny brat baby to a restaurant? I see parents with yappy, crying kids make due all the time out in public. Those patient moms and dads are seemingly interrupted when their kin begin to throw tantrums or loudly clink their forks against the table. It is amazing how these parents are able to enjoy their meals and conversations despite the dirty looks patrons shoot their way when their children are running amok. "Kids will be kids," they casually declare. As they sit calm as a cucumber in the thick of chaos, I feverishly attempt to relax my brat with distraction, bribery or whatever clown act I can come up with when the cries start. Last Friday my husband and I found ourselves consumed with crisis control while out for dinner and left mid-meal to keep from disrupting others. Grrrr. I guess I just don't have it in me, so there will be no Taco Tuesday for mommy.