Set your phased-looks to stunned, because I am about to say something you’d never expect. About a month ago, I was very, VERY glad we were in the suburbs, and I still feel that way.
Jaws off floor, people, because its Qualifying Explanation Story Time!!
I confess I would have spoke of this sooner except I actually still fight tears/gasps when I picture it in my mind.
As we have determined, The Mr. has lept, gleeful-swan-dive-style, into the deep and murky waters of the burbs. This includes indulging in a few horrifying food situations that he used to reserve for business trips (to burbs in other states.) Which is how I ended up at Buffalo Wild Wings.
With my kid.
On purpose. (Well… it was on purpose for The Mr.. I mean seriously. But buffalo sauce is my 2nd favorite sauce after Queso, so there we were.)
It was packed. We had been running errands, Jr. was a little fussy, but I was prepared with the diaper bag full of toys and delicious toddler-approved foods. Except he wanted my food. Bad. So I was letting him try different things and all was well. Except he sucked on a carrot I had sliced into a size I thought would work for chawing on. I was wrong.
So, so wrong.
There was some mild hemming. Then some semi-horking. Then full-on coughing. Then I shot The Mr. a horrified look because it dawned on me what was about to occur. Then Jr. threw up. All-effing-over the place. On me, on the table, on the floor, on himself and the diaper bag and and my self-esteem-as-a-mom.
He looked at me, all confused and sad and moist (blecky but true,) as I tried to figure out just where to start. The Mr. kind of shut down, less horrified than me, but still somehow frozen by his shock. Eventually the staff started to notice the stares and my attempt to clean up, and came to reassure that this was a regular occurrence (really!? Yikes.)
I extracted Jr. from the highchair and we went to the restroom (passing who I think was Brandi-who-I-grew-up-going-to-school-with, but couldn’t look in the eye right then to be sure,) to clean up.
I seriously told exactly three people, counting my mom and my sister (who don’t count, so actually just one,) because I could NOT believe my poor kid ralphed in a restaurant and I kinda caused it. Please don’t misunderstand, but what’s getting me through is that it was in the BWW, surrounded by harried families who have probably SO seen it all. And it was very much not at my beloved neighborhood bistro in our old hood. Because I would have burst into flames right there, I just know it. (I know. -selfish, lame, pathetic. True.)
We departed the joint after helping clean everything and leaving a big fat “sorry we barfed in your section” tip.
I don’t think The Mr. will be so quick to suggest BWW in the future. So I have that, I guess.