Instead of spending the evening of my 40th birthday wining and dining at a lovely restaurant in Banff (which was the plan until the temperature crashed and a foot of snow fell), we spend it in a suburban Boston Pizza. After all, any restaurant that is less than five minutes from our house and gives out three free wax crayons as well as activity placemats is worth its weight in sodium.
So there we are. It’s -30 Celsius, and we have been seated in the kids’ section, which as far as I can tell, is the whole restaurant. I order one of the two red wines on the list and feel forever bonded with Homer Simpson, who said so eloquently, “I’ll have the second least expensive bottle of wine, please.” Except, by ordering only a single glass of wine, I somehow manage to underwhelm the King of Duff Beer.
The wine comes. I drink. My husband orders a ginger ale. Vivian and William scarf chocolate milk like they’ve spent the past month trekking through the Serengeti.
Finally, they start colouring. I look around and notice that of the four families in close proximity, the mother at each table is the only one drinking alcohol. That epiphany, its own moment of silent kinship, causes me to take another sip.
My husband and I discuss the weather when he’s not eyeing the TV, which is playing the Pro Bowl.
It’s not long until Vivian has flipped over her placemat and has started writing Happy Birthday in bubble letters. If there’s an Olympic event for drawing fancy letters quickly, Vivian’s going for gold.
We ooh and aah.
William, as twins are wont to do, does his own letters, which look rather less bubble like.
Because we are modern day, anti-Tiger parents who overpraise everything, we ooh and aah again.
Then we prompt Vivian. She looks at it, raises her eyebrows, and says, “It’s okay.” Understatement, thy name is Vivian.
I take another sip of wine. My glass is no longer half-full. I look at William’s alphabetic attempt and back to Vivian. And then I say this:
I take a cue from my kids’ drinking style and drain my glass as the pizza arrives.
Wow. I am impressed with BOTH of your twins. Very nice fine motor skills indeed!
Happy Birthday!
Yes, their fine motor skills are substantially better than mine, actually. #SurgeonFail
I like the crossed out dot over William’s i. It adds a little zip the whole affair.
It took me about ten minutes to figure out why he crossed out the dot…
A glass of red at a BP on your 20th birthday is festive. A solo glass of red with the other mothers at a BP on your 40th during -30C is grimly hilarious.
ROFL. You are so right. I either drink or cry.
– I order one of the two red wines on the list and feel forever bonded with Homer Simpson, who said so eloquently, “I’ll have the second least expensive bottle of wine, please.”
You are too funny for words. Even whiteboards can’t do you justice.
But because it’s Whiteboard Wednesday, I will share with you the funniest thing I SAW this week – with my eyes – and the words were NOT in bubble letters, but still.
I received an email from my kids’ karate studio meant to confirm private lessons I had scheduled for my daughter Karly for the month of February.
The wife of the owner (who is sweet but none too sharp) sent a message to me with this as the subject line, in all caps as SHE is wont to do:
KARLYS PRIVATES.
You can imagine my surprise when this popped up in my inbox. Oh my. I’m glad it wasn’t MY birthday.
Karlys privates? You can’t make that up, proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction. LMAO.
That sounds amazing. (I can’t wait until we can go to restaurants without having to manage screaming fits. *deep sigh*) Happy 40th!
Of course, I’d never been to a Montana’s or a Boston Pizza until I had toddlers. Now I call up and ask: “Do you have table cloths that my kids can draw on?”
I love the Chah Chah Chah! Both Vivian and William did a great job of your birthday greetings. At the risk of sounding sexist, I think William just gave you the male version of Happy Birthday. This theory of mine may explain why the women’s retreat at our church has its own decorating committee, while the men’s retreat doesn’t even have napkins.
Too funny. I think I’d rather go to men’s retreat. I do not decorate or do crafts. Today at the library, Vivian tried to take out two books on crafts (1. knitting, 2. embroidery). Put a stop to that. I said, “What about this book on snakes?” We settled on a smoothie cookbook…
Love that. The silent alcoholic sisterhood of motherhood (or something like that). BTW, I’m a fan of the Tiger Mom. I want to be her but I’m too lazy. Oh and Happy Birthday!
LOL. When I first heard of the Tiger Mom, I thought, Did Mr. PGA himself knock up another one? Thanks for the wishes.
I love that a foot of snow doesn’t keep Canadians in, it just means you only go to the closer restaurant. I love your honesty. I’m convinced that sarcasm is one of the more effective tools of parenting.
In fact, we felt rather “guilty” for not going to Banff. Good Canadians clearly would have…
I thought of you yesterday (one day early) when I found myself telling my 3-year-old son, speaking of his baby sister: “Don’t let your sister eat your socks!” I love your blog!
Laughing. I can actually envision this happening…
“After all, any restaurant that is less than five minutes from our house and gives out three free wax crayons as well as activity placemats is worth its weight in sodium.” That is terrific writing.
And all the moms indulging? Great stuff. Cheers.
Thanks. I think I should have abandoned the kids and husbands, and taken the other moms over to the lounge side.
Here’s one for the whiteboard. I just said this to my 5yo twins…
“Apple slices are not racecars and the kitchen table is not their racetrack. Stop it.”
Christi Corbett
http://christicorbett.wordpress.com
Too funny. Makes me reminisce back to the “Don’t play with your food” days!
Aww cutest greeting ever! Happy B’day!
Thanks!