It’s early evening, a brief break between intermittent rainfall. A young family comes into my restaurant: dad, mom, an eight year-old and a tiny baby. There’s some struggle with the stroller through the door, and it’s made even harder for the parents by the meandering child darting across its path.
But that’s not even the hardest part for them.
They’re not staying long, they told me. Just a quick bite and a little time to let the rain pass. They refuse the high chair and sit at the bar, looking out the window while the little peanut coos and giggles while she slaps her hands on the bar.
It’s a slow night, so I’m grateful for the business. Even if it is just soup and bread and a few drinks for mom and dad. There’s only one other table in the restaurant – a four-top of older ladies planning some moonlit train ride to Western Canada over their dinner.
They’re the reason the family sat at the bar. I know this, because we can all hear them emit a series of preposterous noises any time the baby makes a sound.
“Ok – that NEEDS to stop,” says one of the old ladies.
“No kidding,” says the other.
The parents don’t say much. They don’t look towards the table. They keep letting their baby try the soup, and talk to their daughter about her day at school. The daughter offers to walk her little sister around the restaurant, so she can show her the pretty pictures on the wall.
I’m pouring water at the old lady table when they walk past me. I stick my tongue out at the baby, and I get a smile back from both. When I turn back, I hear another familiar phrase.
“I don’t know why you bring a baby out to eat. Honestly.”
So I walk up to the bar, and I ask mom how old the little one is. She’s seven months, and small for her age. She doesn’t do well in high chairs, but she loves trying new foods and she’s very chatty. The baby affirms this, almost on command.
I tell them how cute she is, and I tell them a story or two about my boy. We both live in the neighborhood, and mom stays home most of the time, too. They love the neighborhood, and the fact that there’s a restaurant they can walk to.
The baby’s ready to end the meal, and she lets mom and dad know in the customary seven month-old fashion. I hurry back with the check, and thank them for coming by. I wave goodbye to the baby as mom and dad exert no small amount of effort getting her back into the stroller.
I hold the door open for them, and wave good-bye to the eight year-old as they head off for what I’m sure is the baby’s bed time.
“Some people,” says one old lady to another, “they just don’t think about anyone else.”
Holy Sh*t I'm a Dad 