Monkeys

Today I took B and O to McDonald's play area. This is a painful subject for me, as I'm pretty sure I have PTSD from a previous trip to the play area with NBO. In fact, I wasn't sure I'd be able to even go into another play area, as I was afraid it would lead to flashbacks and panic attacks. But, in a moment of weakness, I bribed B with a trip to the "inside" McDonald's (see, I've trained them not to even SAY "play area", as it causes me to break out in a cold sweat) if he got his flu shot this morning (which, much to my amazement, he did!).

I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn't give a rat's @$$  listen all that well to what I say. As I'm getting O out, I sense that B is wandering and give him my standard "Parking lot! Stay here!" reminder. This time, he listened, and decided to glue himself to my um, side, as I'm getting O out of the car, with the door still open, and our rather large car parked in the very narrow space very closely to the car next to us. (Disclaimer: yes, our car is way too big, but it holds three kids and all their crap necessary items, so I'm not complaining). While I'm glad B has listened, I am now using both arms to hold an increasingly heavy, and squirmy, toddler, I have a preschooler glued to my um, side, a parked car right next to me, and a car door open immediately in front of me.

"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.

After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.

 I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
 Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
 The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club".  I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.

I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.

We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.

B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.

As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of  McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.

As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".

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