Toilet humor

Everyone who has a child knows this: you just cannot enjoy a restaurant meal again the way you used to as a couple, looking into each other's eyes, sipping wine or a martini, sharing bites and commenting on how the food is simple yet complex or just plan bad and therefore beneath you. It even worked (for us on some fortunate days) when the baby was an infant sleeping rapturously in his car seat while we made intelligent conversation.

Now, of course, all that has to be left in the past.

These days dinners are all about trying to make it through the evening without a tantrum, without spoiling everyone's outfits with a sloppy mess, and by deftly negotiating with the child over his angry demands for that one toy that he just has to have that very minute. All of this I can deal with, with elan. There is just one thing I try and make sure doesn't interfere with dinner and that is the toilet. The rule is: the boy has to make a trip there before we sit at the table to avoid any unforeseen consequences.

All had been going well, according to plan (or close) until this one night.

Picture this: We're at a lovely Italian place. Dim lights, soft music, the smell of garlicky dishes being delivered here and there fills the air. It's crowded and loud which is great since it keeps our boy amused. He happily makes squiggles and patterns with his crayons until his pasta arrives. It's steaming hot so I ask him if he wants to make a quick pit stop before he starts eating. "Yes," he says and so we go to the bathroom and are back right in time for the pasta is now just right. He begins eating. I sip happily on my Peach Bellini able to, if not stare into my love's eyes, at least chat with him looking at him sideways.

Then it happens. Hubby has to take a "quick" phone call and our son suddenly stops eating.
"What's the matter? Don't you like it?" My calamari arrives, hot, spicy and steaming. I take a bite when he answers, "My stomach hurts."
I put down my fork and ask the dreaded question, "Do you have to go potty?"
"Yes," he says eagerly and begins to slide down our booth. I sigh and look towards the door where hubby is still talking on the phone. Fine. I dutifully start to pull our boy out of our booth.

Our 'too close for comfort' neighboring booth has an older couple seated talking animatedly. They're super well dressed and sipping wine. "Sorry," I say as we scootch past. "I am going potty," my son announces to them. Luckily the woman starts to giggle and dismisses my mortified apologies. On our way to the bathroom I tell him never to do that again.

I take the boy to the toilet and settle him down. And there we are for ten minutes.
"Nothing," he says and we step out.
As soon as we reach our table, he settles down and eats a few more bites. I eat my calamari and watch for hubby to return so we can have a semblance of a civilized dinner. Minutes later, baby clutches his stomach again and says, "My stomach hurts, lets try again."
We slide out once more.
"So soon?" The chic lady asks.
"False alarm, last time," I offer.
I try to be motherly and patient and lead my son back to the ladies. He settles down again and I stand by the door, clenching my teeth, losing my appetite by the second (now I know you're shaking your head saying what a bad mother I am but hear me out. I have had to consult psychiatrists about my aversion to public bathrooms so bear with me).
"Are you angry with me?" the poor thing asks.
"Of course not darling, are you able to...?"
"No."
Another ten minutes pass and we're nowhere close to putting an end to this saga.
"Nothing, lets go," he says.
We wash hands etc etc and go back to the table. The calamari is cold. Hubby is back from his phone call looking perturbed but luckily the boy is digging into his dinner. I attack my cold calamari and warm peach bellini and wait.
It's always third time lucky.
"I want to try again," he says at last.
"Your turn," I say to hubby, and take a swig of my drink. Then I look at the waiter and ask him to pack our tortellinis to go.