Going out for dinner with Kids…

You’ve slaved over the cooker all week cooking healthy meals for the kids that they don’t eat. It’s the weekend. You spruce yourself up and say “Feck it. Will we go out for dinner?”

It all goes tits up from the very start which should be enough to tell you this isn’t going to go well. The kids are killing each other over something to to with the Avengers while you roar at them for the 17th time to get their runners on. You’ve packed the baby bag and are just strapping him into the car seat when you smell something brown and nasty…

By the time you’re on your way out you’re wrecked. But feck it, it’ll be nice to be handed a meal and not have to clean up too.

You’re only in the place 10 minutes and the kids can’t stay still. It always seems like everyone else’s kids are sitting down like angels eating sprouts and carrots while yours are hanging half upside down on the chair asking for chicken nuggets and red sauce.

By the time your meals come out you’re stressed off your rocker and ask can you actually change your order of a small wine to a large please.

Murphy’s Law of parenting suggests that when you pick up your fork is the exact time one of the kids will say something like “I need to do a poo. Will you come with me?”

45 minutes later and it’s been a stress ball of telling them to eat something, asking them to sit still, picking up food from the floor that the baby is firing, looking apologetically at the nice couple at the table next to you, and trying to take bites of your food in between.

You pay the โ‚ฌ70 bill wondering what the f*ck you just paid for and head home.

You’re only in the door and one of the kids says “Can I have something to eat?”

Wine.

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