We struck a deal on Tuesday to take the kid and her kids to dinner on Friday.  It seemed like a reasonable decision at the time.  Little did we know that the entire U.S. Olympic Team would be eating there?  Anyway, the joint was packed, and our reservation in the kid friendly "don't you worry bout a thing room," had been moved to what could only be described as Heaven's Waiting Room.  Let's just say that it was an older crowd. 

Things started pretty mildly with the baby sleeping in her car seat and the two plus year old requesting a high chair, not because she has used one in the past six months, but because she just wanted to have one.  The five year old then insisted on a booster chair that made him look like Billy Joel on a pumped up piano stool.  His knees were just below his chin, and he had to bend over to eat from the table.  The adults were spread evenly between the kids, and the show began.

Our waiter brought out some crayons and crackers with cheese spread, and the spread was, ah, spiced.  The five year old lunged for a cracker and piled two inches of cheese on it.  He then took a big bite and spit it half way across the table.  "Poppa, my mout is on fire," he pleaded.  Then, curiously, he began to lick water from my glass like his dog, Moosey.  By then 42 cataract covered eyes looked over at him in bewilderment. 

Their mom asked the waiter for a veggie tray, and he returned with a dish that had plenty of carrots, celery, broccoli, cauliflower, three baby corns and two black olives.  The kids had gone to battle over baby corn the week-end before at their Uncle's house, and tonight were no different.  "I want the baby cworn," the girl yelled.  "No, I want it," Andre the Giant in the booster chair yelled back.  Their mom tried to settle it by giving each of them one and a half pieces, but the little one would not stop yelling for more baby corn.  Then they each grabbed an olive, stuck it on their fingers and began directing the band.

I noticed the manager working his way toward the Automatic Defibrillator attached to the wall near the exit as some of the more conservative octogenarians began to reach for their chests when Mighty Mouse began to attempt to bend his spoon in half.

Dinner was not easy to come by.  With the veggies in shambles, the chocolate milk bubbled onto both the high chair and the white table cloth from aggressive straw blowing; the smallest member of the family began to fuss.  We picked her up from her protective nest and passed her dutifully from person to person for the next 90 minutes as we waited for and then finally disposed of the meal.

About 48 minutes into the wait, the boy was moving.  He had gotten out of the booster chair 14 times, began making airplane motions with both arms between the tables next to us, and then started to express his need to be free.  "Poppa, let's go outside."  "Let's go outside, Poppa," he said over and over again.  We went outside, the food was served, and by the time we returned, there was ice forming on his baby shrimp.  We did the bathroom thing two more times, and let them play under the tablecloth tent for at least 15 minutes.

Five French fries, two ice cream sundaes, a grilled cheese sandwich, three pads of butter and one green bean later, the kids declared that they had finished.  The adults stared longingly at the draft beer tap, and dreamed of the kids' college graduations while the aging observers buried themselves in memories of their own magical kid dinners with utensils flying everywhere.