Let it be known that the Baroness is in complete agreement with the philosophy that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, bar none.
I am here to tell you that if your day is going to be chock-a-block full of excitement with a 90% chance of flurries (of activity), you are going to need to fill the tank with some rib-stickin' nourishment.
I am also here to tell you that for a small price, it is a treat to have someone else do the cooking for a change. Which is why I have my favorite little breakfast cafe, where they know me and my standing order, and they keep the hot coffee a-comin'. They may not know my name, but they know just by the look on my face whether it's going to be a regular or decaf kind of morning. Don't ask me how - they're just magical that way.
Usually, when I am here, I am in my happiest of happy places. Hot coffee, buttery toast, crossword puzzle, a low ambient murmur, with the occasional cackle thrown in for good measure. Life does not get much better than this.
However.
This past Thursday, there was a disturbance in the force. And because of that, I would like to address the asshat parent who put a damper on my breakfast chi.
Excuse me, ma'am? Yes, this is indeed a lovely young daughter you have. Her long, golden, wavy hair is lovely and mesmerizing, and she has, I am certain, a beautiful spirit. She also seems to have a great deal of energy, guaging by her running hither and thither. And her lung capacity? Wow. Practically freakish in comparison to the size of her wee little cherubic body.
But lady - for god's sake, rein this darling in. NOW.
This is not the ballroom at MacDonald's or Burger King. And while this restaurant labels itself as a family kind of place, this does not mean that your child runs rampant - loud and rampant, may I add - all over the damn place like she does at home. You are not in your own home. She is not in her own home. It is you and her against the rest of us here, and the her 11 out of 10 on the cuteness factor? While it may cause quarters to cascade like a loose slot machine from Grampa's ears at his house? It does not factor in here.
At all.
It is your responsibility as a parent to teach your child about the difference in establishments. By and large, this is a grown-up restaurant, where grown-up people order grown-up food that comes on plates instead of inside a bag. This fact needs to be brought to the attention of your darling. You know - the one who's galloping around everyone's table yelling, "I'm a pony, I'm a pony!"
It is up to you, should you choose to come here, to bring things that will occupy your daughter's attention. Sticker books, coloring books, hand-held video games, dolls, Hot Wheels; basically ANYTHING that will keep your little pony in her stable and quieted.
If I had wanted to try and digest my food in a locale where the decibel level rivals that of an AC/DC concert, I would have stayed at home.
But I'm here, Ringo, and I'm trying real hard to eat my food in peace.
I suggest that you get off your ass and herd in your angel, and start teaching her to do the same.
I have a little secret for you - you are the only one that is finding this behavior so adorable.
Lest you think I hate kids, or that I'm just a grumpy buzzkill, I will tell you that I raised my sons to be respectful of their surroundings when we were out. From an early age, they knew the difference between fast food and fine dining, and were taught - by me - how to act appropriately at each respective place.
I knew that it was up to me to keep tabs on them. I knew that no amount of tip in the free world would pay for a waiter or waitress to babysit my child. Our server's job was to bring our food, not chase after and reprimand our kids.
If they misbehaved, the 3 strike rule came into effect. If we ever got to 3, we would leave. While it happened occasionally at Mickey D's, it never happened in a grown up place. I made sure of it.
My set of rules did not break my children's spirit. My standards and my zero tolerance of bad manners did not turn them into repressed, stilted beings. They are wonderful young men, whose company is enjoyed by us and everyone we know.
And that, my dear lady, is far more adorable.
Now, where's my damn coffee?
I am here to tell you that if your day is going to be chock-a-block full of excitement with a 90% chance of flurries (of activity), you are going to need to fill the tank with some rib-stickin' nourishment.
I am also here to tell you that for a small price, it is a treat to have someone else do the cooking for a change. Which is why I have my favorite little breakfast cafe, where they know me and my standing order, and they keep the hot coffee a-comin'. They may not know my name, but they know just by the look on my face whether it's going to be a regular or decaf kind of morning. Don't ask me how - they're just magical that way.
Usually, when I am here, I am in my happiest of happy places. Hot coffee, buttery toast, crossword puzzle, a low ambient murmur, with the occasional cackle thrown in for good measure. Life does not get much better than this.
However.
This past Thursday, there was a disturbance in the force. And because of that, I would like to address the asshat parent who put a damper on my breakfast chi.
Excuse me, ma'am? Yes, this is indeed a lovely young daughter you have. Her long, golden, wavy hair is lovely and mesmerizing, and she has, I am certain, a beautiful spirit. She also seems to have a great deal of energy, guaging by her running hither and thither. And her lung capacity? Wow. Practically freakish in comparison to the size of her wee little cherubic body.
But lady - for god's sake, rein this darling in. NOW.
This is not the ballroom at MacDonald's or Burger King. And while this restaurant labels itself as a family kind of place, this does not mean that your child runs rampant - loud and rampant, may I add - all over the damn place like she does at home. You are not in your own home. She is not in her own home. It is you and her against the rest of us here, and the her 11 out of 10 on the cuteness factor? While it may cause quarters to cascade like a loose slot machine from Grampa's ears at his house? It does not factor in here.
At all.
It is your responsibility as a parent to teach your child about the difference in establishments. By and large, this is a grown-up restaurant, where grown-up people order grown-up food that comes on plates instead of inside a bag. This fact needs to be brought to the attention of your darling. You know - the one who's galloping around everyone's table yelling, "I'm a pony, I'm a pony!"
It is up to you, should you choose to come here, to bring things that will occupy your daughter's attention. Sticker books, coloring books, hand-held video games, dolls, Hot Wheels; basically ANYTHING that will keep your little pony in her stable and quieted.
If I had wanted to try and digest my food in a locale where the decibel level rivals that of an AC/DC concert, I would have stayed at home.
But I'm here, Ringo, and I'm trying real hard to eat my food in peace.
I suggest that you get off your ass and herd in your angel, and start teaching her to do the same.
I have a little secret for you - you are the only one that is finding this behavior so adorable.
Lest you think I hate kids, or that I'm just a grumpy buzzkill, I will tell you that I raised my sons to be respectful of their surroundings when we were out. From an early age, they knew the difference between fast food and fine dining, and were taught - by me - how to act appropriately at each respective place.
I knew that it was up to me to keep tabs on them. I knew that no amount of tip in the free world would pay for a waiter or waitress to babysit my child. Our server's job was to bring our food, not chase after and reprimand our kids.
If they misbehaved, the 3 strike rule came into effect. If we ever got to 3, we would leave. While it happened occasionally at Mickey D's, it never happened in a grown up place. I made sure of it.
My set of rules did not break my children's spirit. My standards and my zero tolerance of bad manners did not turn them into repressed, stilted beings. They are wonderful young men, whose company is enjoyed by us and everyone we know.
And that, my dear lady, is far more adorable.
Now, where's my damn coffee?
7 comments:
Speaking of "buttery toast," a well-placed (read, "slung") pat of butter should cure your noise ills...or at least bring you temporary joy.
Standing up clapping and saying "Here here!!"
Amen.
Hello? Is that common sense I hear?
YES! YES! YES! Oh, I challenge you to - next time the opportunity presents itself - tell the lazy mom that she is NOT in her own house and is infringing on your right to a quiet meal.
:-)
Peace - D
Where was the manager to tell this woman to curb her kid or leave?
Count Cormac: Whoa there! Are you suggesting that I banana-peel a small child?
Countess of Tea: Thank you, thank you very much. (If you're in my cafe, please say it QUIETLY. Please.)
Countess MPM: Praise the Lord and pass the marmalade, sister!
Countess AG: If you heard it from me, there is no way it was:
a) common
b) sensible.
Countess D: Ooh, I'm afraid of direct confrontation. That's why
I write a blog...
That being said, I could make her read this post. Or maybe just leave a laptop on her table?
Countess Sandi: I believe the manager was gravely injured in the parade to the post. Those horseshoes are dangerous!!
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