I work with kids all day,
every weekday, for ten months every year.
Sure, sure, I “get the summers off,” which means I write curriculum for
two months and don’t get paid for it.
Whatever. This blog entry isn’t about my schedule or
why I have a love/hate relationship with my career choice.
It’s about going to
lunch. That’s right, going to lunch.
Today a teacher friend of
mine and I go shopping. I teach middle
school kids, and she teaches elementary school kids. After hours of perusing through stores, we
decide it certainly must be time to fuel-up at a local watering hole. There are plenty of family-friendly
restaurants around – McDonalds, Applebees, Panera, etc. – so we figure an
adult-oriented place would be in order.
We decide to go to the
British Beer Company.
We were here a few weeks
ago after a long trip to Connecticut to liberate my friend’s “illegally
borrowed” purse. What we remember about
the place is that there weren’t any children there. None. The place is predominantly a barroom,
and it is dark, musky, and a little over-priced for the menu.
In other words, it’s a
perfect place to avoid children.
We walk in, adjust our
eyes to the dimness, and are greeted by the hostess. I say nonchalantly, “Seat us anywhere but
near children … not that there’d be any here in an adult-fare restaurant…”
She promptly leads us to a
table … next to a family with kids and within proximity of the screaming
toddler at another table.
Without even sitting down,
I protest loudly, “No. No, no, no, no,
no, no…. NO.”
My friend, who is far more
articulate than I, translates for me. “This
won’t do. Find us a booth in the bar.”
I don’t even give a shit
if my outburst offends the families. So
what -- they have a right to bring their ankle-biters into a finer restaurant;
not everyone wants to take their young family for fast food. I understand this. What I do not understand is the
screaming. Why … why … why on God’s
green earth would you allow your child to howl away in a public place like
that? The parents aren’t even attending
to the child, just letting its lungs roll on.
I can’t be mad at the kid,
either. I mean, the British Beer Company
is a foreboding and dark place with dark brown furnishings and walls and
ceilings. It’s not exactly a visual fun
house. I can, though, be a little ticked
off at the parents who don’t bother to attend to their child nor remove him from
the premises until he calms down (you know, like take a quick walk around the
building or just get some air in the front lobby). It’s what most of us would do (and have done)
when our kids disturb other patrons in any place of business. No, I cannot be mad at the child.
I can be, and am, royally
pissed off at the hostess who takes my one request (I don’t want to sit near children)
and attempts to put me smack-dab in the center of not only children, but
children in chaos.
Look, I like your kids … a
lot. I spent much of Friday talking a
girl off the figurative ledge when she arrived to my class sobbing about having
to stay after school to finish a math test because it would interfere with
dance class. I pat your child’s back
when he vomits into my trash bucket. I
cheer your child on when I see her suddenly understanding a difficult concept
as all the lights turn on in her eyes. I
pop into band practice to tell your kids how terrific they all sounded playing
together at our Veterans Day assembly. I
greet them in the hallways every morning with “Welcome, children, it’s a
beautiful day!” and send them away every afternoon with “Go home children,
goooo hooooome! Be safe.”
However, when I’m out for
lunch, paying $20 or more for my plate (and a beer), the last thing, the very
last thing I want to hear is your child caterwauling. I am inspired by the Monty Python Holy Grail
Ale that I am drinking, and I take some advice from Chapman’s King Arthur when
he meets the rabbit:
RUN AWAY. RUN AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
