Yesterday was our five year anniversary, mine and Hubby’s. While on our vacation last week we decided to do our celebrating on Friday, our last night at the beach. We had put the kids to bed early and ordered some fancy take-out and spent our evening on the deck listening to the ocean. We agreed it should be the way we commemorated our anniversary, and that the trip itself was our gift to each other this year.
Fast forward to Sunday, the day of our actual anniversary. It rained most of the day. So when it cleared up enough to go out by around 3:00 everyone was ready to leave the house. We went to the book store and let the boys play on the train table, we read some books, bought some gifts for friends, etc. At around 4:30 we agreed that we were all a little hungry and it might be nice to go out to an early dinner to celebrate on our actual anniversary - it was early, the kids weren’t tired, and it was, after all, “our real anniversary; it would be fun. Let’s go to Olive Garden!” And that, my friends, was our fatal flaw, our hubris, if you will. For those of you non-theater geeks, in Greek Tragedy, Hubris is an act of excessive pride, wherein the Greek hero ignores the warnings of the Gods, typically leading to his downfall.
You see, Hubby and I had our perfect celebration. The kids slept through our dinner that night with nary a whimper. We enjoyed each other’s company and got to eat our meal without inhaling it. We should have stopped there, while we were ahead. But NOOOO, NO, NO, NO. We had to push it, didn’t we?
Did you know that the Olive Garden even has a wait at 4:30 in the afternoon? Well, it does. Did we turn around and leave? No - Hubris - “We can wait; it’s early!” And wait we did.
When seated it was clear that Robby was not going to be content sitting in his high chair right from the start. We knew if we could just get him some finger foods he’d be happy, but it took the waiter about 10 minutes to get to us to even take drink orders since, as I said, the Olive Garden is packed even in mid-afternoon. But did we leave? No, we ordered wine instead. Hubris.
When Sam started screaming at the top of his lungs and our drinks hadn’t even arrived, I thought maybe we should throw in the towel. But no, I could handle screaming, I could redirect that energy into something positive (um, Hubris?). But when my wonderful suggestion for him to sing “Bushel and a Peck” resulted in him screeching “Dooda yooda yoodoo, dooda yooda yoodooo, dooda yooda yoodoo, DUUUUUUUUDE!!!!” at the top of his lungs, did we leave? The drinks hadn’t come yet - technically we could still get out without even having to pay a bill - but no. We pressed on. I’d like to mention though that Hubby was silent with fear by this point.
Then the pooping began. First Sam started talking about how he had to poop. Excellent. And so my husband and I were divided in our efforts, one having to escort Sam to the bathroom every five minutes, only to find out that poopie he would not (yes, he is still in diapers, but he needs privacy, you see). Meanwhile, Robby had also decided to get his load out and was grunting quite audibly and turning red in the face at the table. Neither of them were successful in their endeavors, but both were pretty damn cranky about it.
By the time I returned from my third trip with Sam, all of the food had arrived. But, of course, because both kids needed to crap neither was interested in eating. Robby wouldn’t sit in his seat anymore without full out screaming, and Sam had decided he wouldn’t either if Robby didn’t have to, unless he was standing in his chair and playing with the blinds and still singing, “Ya bet your pwetty neck I DOOOOO! Dooda yooda yoodoo . . .” You get the point. I imagine the couple next to us did not have sex last night, for fear they might end up with children and not ever be able to enjoy a quiet evening at the Olive Garden ever again.
We begged every serving person that passed to please get our waiter so that we could box all of the food and get the hell out of there. But by the time he actually arrived, then brought the boxes, then brought the bill, Hubby and I had scarfed our Seafood linguine and I had chugged my Sauvignon Blanc while we took turns holding Robby as he tried to escape and simultaneously trying to get Sam to sit down. Hubby said he’d never seen me eat so fast.
When we finally got out and loaded everyone into the car, we sat through a light for several rounds with it never giving us a green, ever, while the kids screamed in the back seat, until Hubby just drove on through.
When we finally got home each boy shat everywhere, Robby’s exploding from several areas of his diaper onto everything in his vicinity. It was at this point that I thought, “Yep, we totally asked for that.” Hubris.
And so I say to you again, tempt not the fates, swallow your pride, and get the hell out of there, lest the Gods of the Garden of Olive throw a shit storm at you.
Labels: Absolute Favorite Posts, Bodily functions, Holidays and Celebrations, Tales