Hi there! I didn’t get a chance to talk to you the other day when you and your kids plopped down in a restaurant booth next to mine. More's the pity.
Maybe you noticed my wife Liz and me. Or maybe not. You seemed preoccupied. But we noticed you. Actually, it was your kids who first caught our attention. I’m guessing the boy is about three and the girl is about two years older than that?
Anyway, they’re very cute! And they have such healthy lungs! Why, when they screamed in frustration or glee or exhaustion or whatever emotion it was that struck their adorable little hearts every few minutes, I’m sure folks could hear them in every corner of the restaurant! I certainly could, seeing as they were sitting only a couple of feet behind me! There was no ignoring your pint-sized angels, that’s for sure!
We did notice that you made absolutely no effort to get them to pipe down even a wee bit, which seemed, I don’t know, a bit odd. That’s why I turned around and looked right at you during one particularly loud bout of shrieking. I was hoping to catch your eye and perhaps suggest that you slip back into mommy mode. You know, just for a second or two. Nothing too taxing.
But you didn’t notice. I could see that you were mesmerized by your phone. Perhaps you were updating your Facebook status, or grappling with some other equally pressing emergency.
The restaurant was still very busy after the three of you finally left. But with everyone speaking in a normal tone of voice and no young'uns howling and screeching at regular intervals, we might as well have been in a church! Ah, the exuberance of children! They’re so irrepressible, aren’t they? And fortunately for all of us, you have another one on the way!
Anyway, here’s wishing you the best, especially when your free spirits hit puberty. Don’t be too hard on yourself at that point, though, okay? After all, teenagers are supposed to be loud, boorish and ill-mannered, right? No doubt they’ll grow out of it, have kids of their own, and raise them as carefully as you did your own brats. Oops! Slip of the tongue there! Sorry! I mean, your little darlings.
Maybe you noticed my wife Liz and me. Or maybe not. You seemed preoccupied. But we noticed you. Actually, it was your kids who first caught our attention. I’m guessing the boy is about three and the girl is about two years older than that?
Anyway, they’re very cute! And they have such healthy lungs! Why, when they screamed in frustration or glee or exhaustion or whatever emotion it was that struck their adorable little hearts every few minutes, I’m sure folks could hear them in every corner of the restaurant! I certainly could, seeing as they were sitting only a couple of feet behind me! There was no ignoring your pint-sized angels, that’s for sure!
We did notice that you made absolutely no effort to get them to pipe down even a wee bit, which seemed, I don’t know, a bit odd. That’s why I turned around and looked right at you during one particularly loud bout of shrieking. I was hoping to catch your eye and perhaps suggest that you slip back into mommy mode. You know, just for a second or two. Nothing too taxing.
But you didn’t notice. I could see that you were mesmerized by your phone. Perhaps you were updating your Facebook status, or grappling with some other equally pressing emergency.
The restaurant was still very busy after the three of you finally left. But with everyone speaking in a normal tone of voice and no young'uns howling and screeching at regular intervals, we might as well have been in a church! Ah, the exuberance of children! They’re so irrepressible, aren’t they? And fortunately for all of us, you have another one on the way!
Anyway, here’s wishing you the best, especially when your free spirits hit puberty. Don’t be too hard on yourself at that point, though, okay? After all, teenagers are supposed to be loud, boorish and ill-mannered, right? No doubt they’ll grow out of it, have kids of their own, and raise them as carefully as you did your own brats. Oops! Slip of the tongue there! Sorry! I mean, your little darlings.
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