I've been trying to think of how to describe exactly how bad The Spouse's birthday dinner was. Y'all, it was bad. And not the good bad, like sick is now. But the bad bad, like sick used to be. Norovirus on a cruise ship full of old people, bad.
The Spouse and I took the Dynamic Duo to Famous Dave's for his birthday dinner. Because Batman refuses to eat nearly anything, we stopped at The Chicken Nugget Store and picked up four boxes of nuggets for the two of them to share. (We always order Robin a kid's meal with an extra plate and a drink for Batman, and we always tip on the cost of another kids meal so don't think we are stiffing the waitstaff, 'kay.)
From the time we arrived, one of the children - if not both - had their head on the table crying. The smallest thing set them off. It was as if we were at a table with PMSing junior high girls. Oh, the drama! I wanted to sit next to you. He has more nuggets than me. I wanted lemonade, not milk. No, I meant milk, not lemonade.
The waitress kept asking if there was anything she could do. Why, yes, you could take the kids out to the car and sit with them while we enjoy our meal in peace. Or drive us home, so we can drink heavily. I smiled calmly and said that we were out having a very happy birthday celebration for Daddy, couldn't she tell?
After 12 long hours in kid time - about 45 minutes in real time - dinner was over and we were released back into the wild so we could continue the good times in the privacy of our Batcave.
Happy Birthday, honey.