Embarrased doesn’t even cover it!
A trip to Mcdonalds with a 5 and 2 1/2 year old seemed liked the perfect idea with a sick husband home with the flu. The boys didn’t seem to get the whole idea around using “quiet voices”, and hubby wanted to sleep, and damn if we weren’t fresh out of ear plugs.
The idea of a trip out wasn’t all that bad. Forget that the boys behave better in public with the DH than with me. (I’ll save the whole DH:”you must be babying them too much” rant for another post). So off we go, and I even remember to bring along a book to amuse myself with while they run themselves in circles in the playground area.
So aside from the oldest weaving circles around the high school kids (do I EVER know how to time a trip to the MCdonalds next to the local highschool *snort*) we get our food without too much hassel and with me firmly silencing the guilt that says I’ll go straight to hell for letting my kids eat this stuff.
We get settled in the separate eating area right in with the playroom. Which is never really a good idea, since all they do is complain about getting down to go play while alternately stuffing food into their mouths until their cheeks puff out like a chipmunk on steroids.
So food is eaten, or mostly, and off they go, boots tucked under the table and not in the cubby holes since I don’t trust youngest not to disappear inside the climbing tubes with them. There are three other tables occupied at first, then that drops to just one other one, a woman reading the paper while her son, around 6 or so, plays with the boys.
This particular playroom has two ways to climb up inside the twenty feet high tubes with four funky tunnels running in a square at the top connecting it all to the big slide. I read a few paragraphs from the book I brought, look up and watch them scramble by one of the plastic mesh windows, waving and calling out at me and babbling about what pretend game they’re playing.
I smile, wave like the proud fool that I am that my kids are talking up a bluestreak these days. Makes me feel less guilty about the amount of TV they watch. I go back to reading, thinking that Varian isn’t a knight I’d kick out of bed for eating crackers, and keep my ears tuned to the giggles.
Then things get interesting. I hear the other boy say, “Don’t do it. Kid you’ll embarass yourself. Don’t do it.” I know he’s talking to my youngest.
The other mother and I exchange smiles. I glance up, don’t see anything odd and go back to reading. What the hell was I thinking? LOL. I read another few sentences, and hear the kid say it again. “Don’t do it, you’ll embarass yourself.”
Another smile at the woman. A nervous one this time. I look up, hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. The youngest goes crawling past the mesh window.
No. Please no.
I squint harder, hoping desperately I’m seeing things. I stand up. “Did you take your shirt off?” My voice isn’t anything more than a squeak I’m sure.
The other kid says, “He took everything off.”
Jaw hits the floor. Heat crawls up my face until I know without a doubt I am the flattering color of sunbleached roses. Very, very mortified roses. I glance out the inner doors, praying no one else strolls into the playroom.
“Come on down sweetie.” Then another thought occurs to me. When the kid said everything? Did he mean EVERYTHING? I shoot the other woman a smile that can’t be anything close amused, then stare up at the where I can hear hands and knees crawling around above me. I bite back the urge to close my eyes as I ask my oldest if the diaper was taken off too.
The other kid naturally chimes in, “He’s completely naked. He even took his socks off.”
Oh God. Please don’t let him pee. Why haven’t I tried harder to get him fully potty trained? More giggles and running feet, and potty training becomes the least of my concern as my naked toddler thinks it’s freakin’ hilarious that he’s tearing around naked up there.
“Come on down sweetie.” Please, please come down. Another weak glance at the other woman who, is bless her heart, trying to make light about the situation. She probably wants to laugh her ass off, but manners are locking it in. I imagine the first thing she’s going to do is snap up her cell phone the second she gets in her car to tell everyone with kids about what happened. This is about the time I thank my lucky stars the room is fairly deserted. Could be worse. He could have done his little strip tease during supper rush on a Friday night.
I try again, with feeling. “Come down here right now.”
More laughter. The other kid and my oldest chime in, trying to convince him to come down. This only turns it into a game.
“Show mommy how you can go down the slide sweetie.” The second I say the words I want to take them back. All I need is his naked butt coming down a slide a few dozen kids climb up and down in the run of a day. Brilliant I am.
He’s racing in circles now, and I know there is no way around it. Deep breath. I have to go up after him. Perfect. Where was a Knight when I really needed one? Oh that’s right, they only save damsels in distress, not streaking toddlers. Bummer.
In five seconds I come to three conclusions. These tubes are not made for adults. My child with never leave the house again in anything but a one piece suit that Houdini himself couldn’t get out of. And that I’d give anything if it was my 6’4 husband trying to crawl up in this thing. LOL
Because there is NO way I’m about the crawl around in the tunnels above, I hide just under the one step from the top, waiting for two naked legs to drop past me before he crawls into the next tunnel. Ten seconds later I’ve got one squirming giggling troublemaker in my arms. As if crawling up the tube wasn’t problematic enough. Trying to crawl down with a naked boy and his older brother, not to mention the other kid, trying to race me down was NOT how I pictured this impromptu trip out going.
Thankfully no one else has come by and no employee has stepped in to tidy up the tables. I get to the bottom and realize I don’t have his clothes. Wonderful. I send the oldest back up for them which he retrieves, but then leaves on the floor across the room because he wants to see his brother sitting on the chair in the middle of the restaurant without a stitch of clothes on. The other woman, still trying not to laugh too hard and mumbling reassuringly that all kids do this kind of stuff at this age, runs off and grabs the clothes for me.
Guiness record holders have nothing on me as I stuff him back into his clothes, hoping that by the time I get home the whole thing will just be funny as hell. And as I’m dressing him, he’s just giving me this impish grin that dares me not smile back at him. Little bugger.
Not risking a repeat preformance, I get them ready to leave, not once taking a hand off the streaker, all the while consoling myself with the fact that I have one hell of a story to tell each and EVERY girl he ever brings home for the rest of his life.