Momnesia

When your child misbehaves in public

"Come on, Emmie! We have to go get Daddy some dinners!" I chirp, as I unbuckle her from her seat belt at the German restaurant, Augsburg Haus.

"Yeah!" she nods and clambers out of the car. "He sad! He hun-gee. We nee' geh him sumpin' to eat!"

I steer her around waiters and other diners and pop her in a seat at the bar while I pay for dinner.

"Don't touch that, Emmie."

"I said, don't touch that, sweetie-pie."

"Emmie! Did you hear me?"

"Sorry. What do I owe again? Crap. What did he order, gold bullion?!"

"Emmie? What did mommy say?" "I not touch it! Dora touch it!"

"Em- what? Dora touch it? Oh, your doll."

"Okay, thank you for your help. Come on, sweetie! What do we say?" "Dankoo!" "Very good."

A nice server lifts her out of her chair. "Dankoo berry mush!" she says. I beam with pride and begin herding her towards the door.

"Nooooooo!" she squeals. Nearby diners look up. "I don' wanna go home!"

"But, sweetheart, Daddy is hungry. We have his dinners! We have to take it to him or he will be sad!"

"Nooooooooo!" she squeals, and scuttles under a table, pulling a chair in behind her.
(Sigh....)

In the corner a table of Richmond County Sheriff's Deputies are enjoying their dinner. So I can't offer to sell her, and I can't beat her. Hmmm. What other parenting techniques can there be? (I kid! Don't come and take her, DFACS! I also have never even suggested that I might like to sell her on ebay, so don't uh... read the rest of this blog!)

I put the food bag down and lean in: "Emerson. Do you remember earlier today when we were at the party?"

"Uh-huh!" she brightened.

"Do you remember when mommy wouldn't let you go to the store?"

"Yeah..." she looked saddened by the memory. The police officers are grinning at us, but trying to do it in a way that I don't notice.

"Why did mommy take you home and not to the store?"

"Uh... 'cause I runned away and I clime da hill and I tush da cookies."

"Right. But mainly because you ran away and hid under the table. What are you doing now?"

"I hide unner da table. Can you come an' fine me?"

"I think I already did, sweetheart. Now, do you want another time out?"

"No..."

"Do you want Daddy to be sad? Or hungry?"

"No..."

"Then let's go take him his dinners, doodle-bug."

She thought for a minute and then scrambled out. Thank god. The cops go back to their spaetzle.

"Thank you, sweetie," I started for the door. "Now, when we... Emmie?"

She was still sitting on the stairs. At least she wasn't under the table anymore.

"Honey? Will you come with mommy?"

She stood up and backed up the stairs to the raised dining area. Crap... the deputies are taking more of an active interest, and two older gentleman at a table are glancing at Emmie in irritation.

"Emmie? Will you come help mommy bring daddy his dinner?"

She backs further away. If I snatch her up, she'll kick and scream the whole way. And I hate manhandling her. And I don't know how the deputies might take it. I don't want their frowny faces aimed in my direction.

I step towards her. She giggles and ducks behind the railing. Damn. She wants to play. We just can't. Scott is at home and in pain, and he might need my help. And I have to pee. And I'm hungry. And I'm frickin' tired. And it's a half-hour before her bedtime.

"Okay, roodle-doo. I see you laters!" I turn and walk towards the door. She steps towards me, looking worried.

"Bye-bye, sweetie! I leabing!" Why do I baby talk in public? Can someone make it stop?

"Mama?!" she calls. The deputies are watching openly now.

"I gotta go, doodle! You coming?"

"No, I don' wanna go home!" she jerks her body like she's having a seizure. Play it smart, Stacey, or they'll be sour braten all over the car - and perhaps an arrest record in your future.

"I not go home, doodle!" English, woman! Speak English! "I go to store!"

"I wanna go to da store!"

"Well, come on!"

She runs happily to her lying jerk of a mother, who manipulated her into the parking lot where she could scream to her heart's content. I strap her in her car seat and tell her that because she hid from me under the table, she could not go to the store. She had to go home to time-out.

For a moment, there was a shocked silence. Had she been 16, there would have been a series of shrieked, "You're the worst mother in the world! I wish you were dead! I hate you Ihateyou Ihateyou!" But I know that will come in time. For now, there was only the high-pitched shrieking that comes when the woman you trust most in the world has willingly betrayed that trust.

The worst part: we were never going to go to the store.