Fiesta! Or, Waiting for Mommy

Monday nights are typically our off-nights as far as dinner goes. Crystal works late, so it's up to me to either make the kids dinner (I'm no Justin Wilson, or even Graham Kerr, but I can scare up a mean grilled cheese), or visit one of our favorite eateries for either carryout or dine-in.

Last night was even more unusual in that Riley had spent the night with my father-in-law Paul. The erstwhile duo spent the day at Paul's brother's house in the country, wandering the woods and feeding fish.

Crystal suggested we all at La Hacienda, a Mexican joint just a few minutes from her office, after she got off work at 7:00.

So we hacked through the rugged terrain of I-69 and popped into the bustling little cantina at about quarter till. Mason hadn't taken a bottle since I picked him up at 4:00 and was ready for some liquid refreshment.

Being the minimially resourceful dad I am, I didn't forget to grab the diaper bag before leaving the house (though, to be honest, I had to go back in and get it), so I quickly readied a bottle.

We were seated and ordered drinks--Coke for me, milk for Jen, water for Riley, Diet Coke for Paul--and some queso. When the white cheese arrived, I grabbed a smaller bowl and dipped some out for Riley, sliding it toward him, past the glowing eyes of my infant son, who had mischief on his mind, and his siblings were in on the joke.

Across the table Jenna sprang into action. "Daddy, I ga' go pee!" she announced to the restaurant.

I knew it was a ruse, because she had just gone. "Jen, shh," I said.

That was all the time Mason needed. He went to work, grabbing the tiny vessel and dumped it, thick, viscous cheese oozing onto the table. I grabbed at the stack of wrapped silverware, pulling off the napkins. The forks and knives clanged on the table as I struggled to keep the cheese from flowing onto the floor, or onto Mason.

But the thin paper squares were no match for the thick, milky dip, so I asked the passing waitress for a washcloth and some more napkins. She dutifully returned seconds later and cleaned the mess.

Across the table, Jenna was herself in motion.

I sighed and popped a chip in my mouth as Paul chuckled. "Never a dull moment," he said.

"Nope, sure isn't" I said, wiping my brow and shaking my head.

I grabbed another chip, and wondered if the waitress had let a little cheese slosh over them when she brought the queso. A couple of them had a little liquid on them. But it didn't taste cheesy.

"Daddy, I ga' go pee!" Jen said again, too loud.

Riley piped up. "Daddy, I gotta go potty too."

"Hold on just a second," I said, still catching my breath. I dug into the basket of chips again, and noticed that even more of them were wet. I sifted to the bottom, and there was a pooling of white liquid--not queso, but milk--in the bottom. I looked at Jenna, then the ever-more-soggy chips, then Jenna's kid-sized milk that she had shaken into the basket while I was taking care of Mason's mess.

I felt the eyes of the young couple next to us(I'd guess no older than early 20s) boring into my soul.

I asked the waitress for more chips. "She, uh, dumped some milk into the basket," I said sheepishly.

Finally, mercifully, Crystal walked in at about 7:15, just in time.

And no, it didn't get any better the rest of the night. Mason grasped at both my dinner and Riley's (the middle of a table is no place for a 10-month-old), Riley got up to wander the restaurant, and Jenna continued to loudly request a trip to the bathroom (for the record, we went once, with no positive outcome).

At one point I looked at Riley, and he had a baseball-sized ball of rice cupped in his hand and took a bite, grains spilling out either side. Jenna indulged in her second-favorite restaurant pastime of tipping her cup of milk upward as she drinks from her straw, and Mason stretched to reach the kids' communal plate of rice to take his share.

When we left, the table looked like the beaches of Normandy on June 7, 1944. I left a couple of extra dollars for a tip.

All in a day's work, for a waitress or a dad.