Aren't You Ashamed of Yourself?

Yes, I am. I'm terribly ashamed of myself. If I had my own reality show I'd be in the headlines right now: Mother Acts Childish. But, thank God, I am not on TV. I do not have to be scrutinized by the masses for the normal, garden-variety imperfections that I sport like freckles.

We went to dinner. That's how it all began. Except it was WAY past bedtime for those among us who deem it fine to fart in public (my children, but thank you for thinking that I am a) that young and b) that liberated and unselfconscious). Cranky doesn't do justice to their state of being. Spilled: not just one but TWO miso soups. Overheard: shushing from the childless people beside me. Reaction: the embarrassing mother behavior that makes us all want to turn away. In other words, cross words, cross face, a lot of huffing, whispered threats, and one hearty, I-am-so-put-upon sigh.

The big kid spilled the soy onto the table. The little one put her hand in the burning hot soup and tipped it over. The big one moved the table and spilled the replacement soup. The little one screamed "POTTY" at the top of her lungs (I mean, for AWHILE, like we're attracting attention awhile). The big one covered himself in sticky sushi rice. The little one threw crackers on the floor and laughed. Do I need to go on?

I don't even want to tell you the price of that Japanese dinner. When we got back, my husband and I looked at one another surprised that we had lived through it.

And to think I'd been planning on getting dressed up for this meal! Check please.