Can We Muzzle The Kid At Table Five?

Kevin and I recently drove to Visalia to do a couple of errands.  My folks were watching the kids, it was a Saturday afternoon, so we stopped for a bite to eat at a nearby Olive Garden before heading home.  We try to get a little 'together' time when we can, and it was the perfect opportunity to eat a meal I didn't have to cook or clean up after, without being rushed by 'bored' kids, or making multiple trips to the restaurant's restroom because my child 'didn't have to go when we left home, mom'. 

If I really wanted peace and quiet and a little romantic table for two, it would have been wise to pick a restaurant who's motto isn't "When you're here, you're family" and provides childrens' menus and color crayons for the younger set. However, with a limited time-frame and a budget to adhere to, Olive Garden was our best bet.

 (BTW: I'm not opposed to children in restaurants.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  If you don't dine out with your child, the child doesn't learn to dine out.  In other words, if you do take-out until Junior is six, expect him to behave like a hooligan the first time you plant him in a chair at the Macaroni Grill.  It's your own fault.  You earned it.  And for cryin' out loud, do NOT put a caffeinated sugar-laden soda in front of the kid.  Its sabotage.  You want him to sit still and behave in public? Avoid letting him suck down the equivalent of juvenile crack-cocaine.  Stick to milk.) 

Just before our meal arrived, Chuckie (like the horror movie?) decided to detonate two tables down.  At first, we ignored it, because, really?  Who lets their child go from zero to sixty in a public space without attempting to stop it?  Apparently, Chuckie's parents.  If, at first, the wails were annoying, after five minutes of being ignored, Chuckie pulled out the big guns and began to shriek like he was being attacked by a swarm of killer bees.  I was sure his mother would now jump out of her chair and whisk the little demon out of the restaurant...but, noo-ooo.  You'd have thought we were standing in the middle of WalMart on payday, instead of a restaurant. 

The couple at the table next to us looked distressed.  The woman bowed her head and pressed her fingertips to her temples as though her brain might explode.  The waitress arrived at our table to deliver our meals.  We'd been listening to psycho boy flip out for ten minutes and his mother still hadn't gotten the memo that it was time to remove the little darling from the restaurant.  (I can understand wanting to get the point across that bad behavior won't be a child's ticket out of a boring situation, but how 'bout teaching that lesson somewhere other than the middle of a crowded restaurant? At the very least, would it have killed the mother to pick him up and take him to the restroom until he calmed down? When I was a kid, the understanding was pretty clear: You acted like a jackass and you got a trip to the restroom.  Period.  The End.)

"Oh my goodness.  That is just sooo loud." I said.  (Yeah, right.  It went more like, "Would somebody shut that little $%@ up.")

"You know," my husband said to the waitress (in his loudest voice) "I think we're going to have to just get this to go.  That noise is just unacceptable."

"Oh.  I'm sorry.  Let me get you some take-out containers."  She suggested.

WHAT????!!!!!???  You mean in Olive Garden Employee Training they didn't teach these servers to handle rude families?  They'd rather lose all the courteous diners so as not to offend psycho-boy's parents?  Honestly? 

Apparently, Kevin's ultra-loud suggestion reached Chuckie's table.  At that point, his father stood up and carried the little nightmare out of the dining room.  The exploding headed diner closest to us, looked up, her fingers still pressed to her head and mouthed gratefully in our direction, "Thank YOU."  The waitress just stood there with her mouth hanging open. 

Can I just say, I'm terribly glad that I've never worked as a waitress because if I'd been in our server's position, I wouldn't  be writing this...I'd be punching out license plates in prison issue rubber shoes because I'd have taken my cute little tray and whacked Chuckie's parents across the head with it.  Of course, I'd have raked in the tips that day from all the other diners, but whatever.