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Smith Says

Published Tuesday, May 25, 2010 2:16 PM

By Julie R. Smith
Summerville Journal Scene ®

There was a blurb on AOL last week about children vs. upscale restaurants: Should they be allowed or not?

I didn’t read the article, but I understand the debate.

In today’s economy, some eateries would welcome snarling pit bulls if they ordered two appetizers and an entrée, and who can blame them? Times are tough. Places are closing faster than you can say “fresh red snapper.”

I figure children should go anywhere they can reasonably be expected to behave. Some kids can’t make it to the mailbox without a meltdown. Others will calmly order chicken nuggets and know what a napkin is for. The problem is, those little angels represent maybe 2 percent. The other 98 percent we must suffer through. And that’s just it—I refuse to suffer if I’m paying for a nice meal, or even a $3 sandwich.

Now, I realize even the best-behaved child can have a bad day. I get cranky myself without a nap. But at some point a line must be drawn. Who should draw it? The obvious answer is the parents, but… consider this:

Widdle and I were eating at a small Italian bistro 20 miles from home. He’d raved about the food for weeks, so we dropped in for an early dinner one Sunday.

There was a family sitting in a corner booth with two little boys. One was about six, and acted like a six-year-old: Squirming, yawning, playing with the salt shaker. Nothing major.

The other kid, maybe four, was another story. He screamed, threw bread, spewed iced tea on his brother, banged his shoe on the table and bawled, “Mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama! I put ice in my nose!! MAMA-MAMA-MAMA-MAMA-MAMA! I’m a fire truck!!” Then he careened around the dining room, howling at the top of his lungs.

Nobody was enjoying their meal, us included. It was impossible to carry on a conversation.

One couple pointedly picked up their half-eaten food, utensils and drinks and moved to a table in the farthest corner. The rest of us shot murderous looks at the parents, who blithely ignored their devil’s spawn.

As I choked down my chicken Florentine, Widdle (the most patient man in the Western world) muttered, “They need to control that boy.”

At that moment our/their waitress--who looked like she wanted to die--checked on us. “I know you can’t say anything because you need their business,” I said softly. “But I’ll be glad to.” I smiled.

Widdle, who knows me very, very well, lurched across the table and grabbed my wrist. “No,” he said.

The waitress said, “I’m so sorry.”

Widdle still gripping my wrist, said, “Can you bring us boxes? I don’t know how long I can hold her.”

The parents were still ignoring the poor kid when we left. Because they didn’t care enough to correct him on such basic life issues, I foresee these words in 15 years: “Mama-mama-mama-mama-mama, it wasn’t my cocaine!”

Many years ago, my mother cared enough to interrupt her meal, drag me out of a burger joint and blister my behind—for squirting ketchup in my brother T-Bob’s eye.

That’s what a parent is supposed to do. That’s also why I haven’t eaten a hamburger in 30 years, but you get the point.

Julie R. Smith, who is frankly puzzled by most children, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

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