My children, now in kindergarten and third grade, are finally old enough to be good company in restaurants. There’s no tripping of waiters, very rarely a spilled lemonade. The restlessness they used to exhibit in public has been replaced by an almost scholarly interest in tic-tac-toe and, miraculously, the food itself.
When this change happened, we lived in Iowa, where we had plenty of affordable, kid-friendly restaurants to choose from. This was a hard-earned milestone for my wife and me. After so many failed outings when the kids were younger—a diaper blowout in a bathroom the size of a closet, $12 macaroni left untouched for being the “wrong” color cheese—dinner out had suddenly become a treat, a chance to feed hungry bellies without doing dishes. After the meal, we always stacked our plates and wiped the floor beneath the table to foster goodwill on behalf of all parents. We would ask for a box, and the bill.
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