Do you smell something?

Somewhere along the last 4 1/2 years family dinners at restaurants became much more complicated. I faintly recall going out for supper when our oldest son was a newborn: We sat his carrier under the table and barely noticed his presence as he slept peacefully through a three course meal. But then he started spending more time awake. And then he expected to get food and drink himself. And then he started craving actual attention from his parents. Throw in some sippy cups, a couple crayons, an unlimited supply of energy and an additional child...well, family dinners at restaurants become much more complicated.

Perhaps the most difficult component of taking two children out to lunch is the looks you get from other diners. There's a strange mix of pity and annoyance involved. Other people's children are only cute and adorable for a very limited time, after all. Once other diners start noticing a child's volume or attitude, it's pretty much all downhill. Because then they find themselves asking questions such as, "Why do they let him dress that way?" I used to ask questions like that...now I consider myself lucky when my son willingly wears something other than green mesh shorts and a Superman pajama top. At any rate, taking your children to a restaurant is essentially inviting strangers to observe you, judge you and - occasionally - interject their wisdom. Thus, we typically choose restaurants carefully and arrive with a myriad of portable appetizers, art supplies and toys in tow. Still, there are some things you simply cannot prepare for, and there are moments where strangers' observations actually prove helpful.

We recently stopped at a small town pub for a quick lunch when our morning hike had been cut short by rain and tired legs. Our weekend camping trip had been lovely, but some warm comfort food sounded pretty appealing. In a shocking turn of events, our son ordered macaroni and cheese. We opted for some sandwiches. I debated whether to order a beer or drink for quite some time. Just a typical meal out, honestly. We even managed to keep our children in their seats and occupied while waiting for the food, which is akin to getting two members of congress to remain civil and rational for an entire conversation. Everything was going quite well. But shortly before the food arrived, our server started behaving strangely.

First, she picked some scattered snacks up from around our daughter's high chair and - in a very concerned tone - asked whether we needed anything. We replied that we were quite all right. Then she returned and said, "Are you sure you're okay? It's really no big deal. Messes are pretty common." Again, we assured her that things were under control, wondering why some spilled crackers were causing such a problem. Maybe she just was not accustomed to serving families? Then - shortly before the food arrived - she brought over a gigantic wad of paper towels "just in case we needed them." We thanked her again, only this time I cheerfully added, "Hey, could I get one of those draft root beers?" As we puzzled over the mountain of paper towels, we started to notice a very pungent and very familiar odor. "Do you smell something?" my wife asked. That's when everything started to make sense. When I replay the moment in my head, it's much like the final scene of "The Usual Suspects." I imagine my coffee mug slowly crashing to the floor as I think back over our server's comments, smell that odor and realize that I have missed the reality right underneath my nose.

When I pulled back the vinyl table cloth, I discovered a trail of poop cascading down from my lovely daughter's diaper, dripping from the high chair and literally piling up on the floor beneath. I mean, I have been a father for nearly five years, and I have never before seen that much crap. We stopped thinking about root beer and shifted into crisis intervention mode: I ran to the car for different clothes, Amber took our daughter to the bathroom, I used those paper towels the server had offered before we even realized what was happening. It took literally 20 minutes to settle in again, and we were being stared down by every diner in Utica, Illinois. The looks of judgment were out in full force. Apparently these people had never seen a literal shit storm quite like this before.

I apologized to the server profusely, explaining that we honestly did not realize what happened. She obviously recognized that, but opted for hints and indirect communication because she did not want to offend us (see my wife's recent post on the perils of indirect communication). We had wondered why this young woman was behaving strangely. She had wondered why we were so calm about the poop all over...well...everything. I mean, she brought over a massive wad of paper towels. And I responded by cheerfully ordering "one of those draft root beers."

Indeed, eating out with young children is complicated. Not only are you risking an epic diaper blow-out, but you are inviting total strangers to observe you, judge you and - occasionally - interject their wisdom. Here's my question, though: is it possible that other people could actually prove useful in that capacity? After all, that's what community is. Couples and families consistently rely on friends, counselors and even strangers to see what they're missing...to point out the not-so-proverbial poop that's hidden under the high chair. Marriage is every bit as complicated as taking young children out to dinner. At some point, you might need to invite some outside perspectives and wisdom. You also might need their help cleaning up the mess you conveniently ignored.

- Cliff (aka The Husband)