Restaurant Manners

Notice the cute little boys.
One with hair. One with . . . cheeks.
Ignore the glasses.

When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'.

Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.

But especially tacos.

Mmmmm. Tacos.

There was only one problem.

I couldn't get them hot enough.

I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.

Not enough.

Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.

Still not enough.

A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)

Almost there.

Seven drops.

Perfect.

And that's the way I ate them.

The entire nine months.

My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.

I think I burned it off.

This is relevant.

Moving on . . .

After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.

Mmmmm. More food.

I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest.

Toasty and comfortable.

Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.

My dinner arrived.

I looked at the loaded plate.

Then at my baby.

I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.

But that would take effort.

And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.

Hunger decided.

I would just eat.

Over the baby.

It was just like being pregnant again.

Sort of.

All went well.

The mushy peas went first.

That was easy. I just held the bowl close and spooned.

Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.

Mmmm.

And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.

With ketchup.

Paradise.

Dip.

Munch.

Dip.

Munch.

And so it went.

Then, that fateful dip.

Splat.

Oops.

Right on the top of my baby's bald head.

What to do?

I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.

Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.

Done.

I happily went back to eating my chips.

That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table.

Looking at me.

A frozen expression of horror on her face.

Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.

I remember being a trifle embarrassed.

And briefly uncomfortable.

Then I shrugged.

In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex.

It's all a matter of perspective.

And food.