We enter a local restaurant for dinner. I see the look of panic in the cute little 20-something server’s eyes when I ask for a table for six, including a high chair and a sling for the baby’s car seat.
She definitely has her work cut out for her. Meanwhile, as someone who recently gave birth to a gigantic baby, I feel a bit self-conscious as we follow her skinny-jean-wearing self to the back corner of the room.
We play musical chairs, trying to decide where I can best “hide” to nurse the baby and who is going to sit by Adelaide, who is well-known for spilling drinks, spitting out half-chewed broccoli and generally being hard to get along with while at the table.
Unfortunately, the restaurant has a TV blaring in the corner. Since they become blank-eyed, staring zombies any time there is a television in their vicinity, I try to limit my kids’ television exposure. Tonight, we have no choice but to watch and listen.
My husband and I take turns at the salad bar while the girls get busy decorating their placemats with their crayons, stopping now and then to gaze at some random cleavage, some product that’s currently deemed sexy. I don’t want them to think those things are acceptable. Even though I feel insecure about my own appearance at the moment, I never want them to feel that way about themselves. I remember why I don’t let them watch TV.
I order “the usual:” three grilled cheese sandwiches and three orders of veggies for them. I decide to splurge and let them have sweet tea instead of their usual water with lemon.
A few minutes later, you can tell it’s us by the pile of grilled cheese crusts and melted ice on the floor, the pickle that landed two tables over, the screeching baby, the pile of jackets in the corner and the three tic-tac-toe covered kids’ menus on the table.
After filling a bowl up with peaches from the salad bar for the third time, I return to our table just in time to hear a loud TV announcement about The World’s Most Beautiful Woman.
My husband zones the girls in by waving his hand in front of their faces so they’ll glance away from the TV. He asks my daughters who they think The World’s Most Beautiful Woman is. Adelaide, the 2-year-old, says, “I am!” Sadie, the thinker, says, “I just don’t have any idea – let me think.” Josie, the emotional one, looks straight at me and says, “You are, Mommy.”
I look down at my spit-up stained, freshly drooled-on shirt, my yoga pants (my jeans still won’t fit since my last pregnancy), mismatched socks and ragged nails. I think of my frizzy, neglected hair, the bags under my eyes and the extra 30 pounds I still need to lose.
I smile, touched by Josie’s sweetness, by her unsolicited, immediate response to such a question.
I look over at the frazzled waitress as she brings over yet another stack of extra napkins. Thanks to us, she’s having a bad night. I wonder how she still looks like she just stepped out of a magazine.
But if my little girl thinks I am The World’s Most Beautiful Woman, then maybe I am.
From my April 17th article on www.mentorpatch.com
