Balloon Battle

Eating out just isn't how it used to be.

I recently returned from a trip to TN to see my grandmom and aunt, and my mom also came in from FL so she could get in some quality time with the Mountain Child. My mom, aunt and I decided to go eat at a trendy Asian fusion-type place with Mountain Child. That was a fatal mistake.

It all started okay enough. I had settled Mountain Child to the table with some chopsticks and was letting her play with the tiny soy sauce dishes. It was nearly...pleasant. Let me stop here to say that anyone thinking that going to a restaurant with a kid is actually pleasant either has some cyborg for a child or they just don't have kids. It is work, exhausting work, from the time you get ready to go until you get home. There is nearly always crying and parents are almost always uptight and annoyed. But I still do it because 1) sometimes it is my only choice if I want to go out, and 2) it is a valuable learning tool for...well, I am sure that we all learn lessons along the way.

Anyway, back to my evening. Things were going tolerably until the PARTY came in. They all came prancing in with a huge bouquet of balloons and birthday cake. Mountain Child's entire face lit up. PARRY? PARRY!?! OOOOOHHHHHHH!!!! LOONS! LOONS!!!!!!

Oh, God, here we go.

I say to Mountain Child, "Yes, Balloons! Aren't they pretty? What color are they?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! LOONS!!!!!!!!" She is now reaching for them.

"No, sweetie, those aren't yours.""NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" She proceeds to try and get out of the high chair. I make her sit down. She then screams and cries. I begin formulating an exit strategy and wonder if they would make an exception about taking alcohol to go. I mistakenly thought if I just took over to the balloons, she could see and touch them and then it would be over. Of course, that was a complete fantasy.

I then take her outside. She continues to scream and now she is pulling my hair. I try to act like a calm and collected mommy that is totally in control despite the fact that a screaming two year old is using my hair like Tarzan's Vine. I realize now that I will have to go home. Mountain Child is 25 pounds of rage and fury. I walk into the restaurant to tell my mom and aunt that I won't be enjoying my sushi with them and get my things. My mom and aunt start to pepper in some suggestions:

"What about coloring?"

"I don't think that she will do that right now. She wants to kill someone."

"How about some ice cream?""Maybe...but she needs dinner..."

"Here, let me hold her; she just needs her Nana."

Then my aunt takes matters into her own hands and marches over to the party, blissfully unaware of the personal hell that I am experiencing just a few feet away. She offers them ten dollars for one of the balloons. They, of course, look over to me with my screeching mess of a child, and, of course, refuse the money and just hand over a balloon.

Mountain Child immediately stops crying. She is now in heaven. "OOOOHHH! LOON! TANK YOOO!" I am not in heaven. I am mortified.

I know that I should expect brattiness and psychosis from two-year old. I am hardly surprised. But now I am faced with a difficult choice: a) I refuse to give in to Mountain Child's domestic terrorism and still take her home without that stupid balloon, or b) thank the people, let it go, and enjoy my sushi. I chose b. I imagine that a child development expert would have tsk tsked me, but by then I was just spent. And reallyreally hungry.