Highlights from a Birthday Dinner

Recently it was Michael’s Mommy’s birthday. I took her out to a local seafood restaurant for lobster, as it is very tasty and what she yearns for most, foody-wise.

Since Michael is our own and does not have the pleasure of changing parental venue from time to time as his sisters do, he came along with us. I explained to him, up close and personal-like, that he would need to be very good in the restaurant, because it was mommy’s birthday and it was her turn to be special.

He responded by fidgeting and looking in every direction except mine. I might as well have been describing Einstein’s theory of special relativity.

Immediately upon entering the restaurant, we were greeted by a host who asked how many were in our party. Michael was captivated by the sight before him: a large tank filled with water and crawling with lobsters.

“Daddy! I want to go see the bugs that crawl!” he said excitedly.

“Okay, we will in just a minute. Let’s get our table and then we’ll go see the bugs that crawl.” Evidently he’s been paying close attention to Alton Brown.

After we sat down, I told my wife she could relax and pore over the menu (like she really needed to – hello! Lobster! Lots of it!) while I took Michael to look at the critters in the tank.

He was fascinated with them, watching them scuttle around on the floor of the tank, climbing on top of one another, claws rendered ineffectual by giant blue rubber bands.

“I want that one!” he said, pointing to a large, very active lobster.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to eat its head!”

Where did that come from? When I was his age, I would have tossed my cookies just smelling a lobster, let alone eating its head.

“Are you sure? It looks kind of mean,” I said, hoping to dissuade him from actually ordering lobster. I don’t think they have it on the kids’ menu, but these days you can never be too sure.

“Yes. I want to take it apart and eat its head and pull off its eyes,” he said. The cruelty! How did I raise such a sadistic child? He’s only four, how could he have built up such a store of repressed hostility already?

“Okay! Well, let’s go see what your mom is doing!” I said, hoping to change the subject to something less gruesome.

When we got back to our table we saw another family sitting at the next booth: a mom, dad and two girls who were on either side of Michael’s age. Oddly enough, our two families were the only ones seated in the area. Could the restaurant staff be trying to protect their less rambunctious patrons from the three Tasmanian devils they parked here?

Indeed so. After we ordered our dinner, the younger girl, who was probably just past two, popped up and started dancing around. It wasn’t long before Michael was intrigued right out of his seat and onto the carpet to dance along with her, sans music.

Then they started racing, sprinting around the tables in our secluded little corner of the restaurant, somehow avoiding careening into the walls and chairs as well as each other. We figured it was all well and good since we were pretty much alone. We are not the kind of parents who would let their child run wild and free in public, mind you! But in the absence of public, no big deal.

Seeing our kids playing together broke the ice, so to speak, so we introduced ourselves to the other couple. They asked if their kids were ruining our evening,

“Heck no! This is free entertainment, and they’re keeping Michael occupied. I would have paid big money for service like this.”

When Michael’s dinner finally arrived, his mom called him back. He ran up, pink-cheeked and out of breath.

“You need to eat some chicken,” she said.

He quickly nibbled off two bites, swallowed and ran off to find his playmates.

Then his younger playmate was called to her own table and had to eat some of her dinner. Michael, somewhat lacking in social graces, called out to her:

“Hey! Hey, baby thing!”

“Our daughter is named ‘baby thing,’ apparently,” the girl’s dad said, amused, to his wife.

“Michael! Ask her what her name is!” I scolded.

“Umm… what’s your name?” he asked. She just blinked at him and grinned, as only a two-and-a-half year old can do. Her father spoke up.

“Her name is Eva,” he said.

“This is Michael,” I said.

Sensing that protocol has been satisfied, off they ran again.

Mommy’s dinner finally arrived. On one of his passes, she asked Michael if he’d like some of it, since he was so interested in them before and had made such lofty statements about the manner in which he would consume them. Nope, he wanted nothing to do with it. So he ate another twelve milligrams of his chicken strips, then jumped down to dance with the girls.

Well, as they say, it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

At one point during his table-side dancing, Michael bounced up under the table and clonked his skull on the underside. It was a heavy table constructed of solid oak planks, but he hit it hard enough to make the salt and pepper shakers leap two inches and land on their sides. He bent over and held his head, obviously in pain. His mom went to him immediately to check the wound and have him to sit with her for a minute. With the force of the blow and the way he was bent over, I was expecting the poor little guy to really bawl.

The girls’ dad called them over. “Michael hit his head pretty hard. We’d better let him alone for a while.”

“He’ll be okay,” I said. “It might slow him down for a few minutes but…” I didn’t even get the sentence out of my mouth when Michael straightened up and was off and running again.

“Wow!” they said. “He didn’t even cry!” That’s my boy. Doesn’t know the meaning of pain. Unless he’s delivering it. Sort of like Chuck Norris.

All in all, a fine evening out. His mom actually got to fully enjoy her dinner without having Michael jab her in the ear with his elbows every 90 seconds, and she could drink her water without fear of Michael’s batter-fried backwash.

To top it off, she got to wear a fish hat and have her picture taken while the wait staff sang “Happy Birthday” for her.

Because I don’t want to sleep on the couchlove her, I didn’t post the picture. You can use your imagination.

Happy Birthday, Michael’s Mommy!