Last night, thanks to creative planning on my part, we ended up eating dinner out. (On the way to the lame excuse of a "home show," Brent turned to me and asked, "Is this timed so that we'll eat dinner out?" Of course. We left the house just before 4 p.m., but it was OK, it was his Friday payday, and in the New Year's spirit, we're trying to just eat out only on those blessed Fridays every other week.)
We were at one of our favorite little, casual Italian restaurants, in a booth with very high backs. We were waiting for the check when Brent engaged in a game of tossing used napkins back and forth with Maxine. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened next. Yup, Maxine tosses her napkin up and over the high-backed booth. Me? I was ready to just run from the restaurant. Brent? Does the right thing and tells Maxine she must apologize. I move so she can get out of the booth to apologize to the family in the next booth. "Yes, Max, you must say sorry," I agree as I scoot.
Then Brent says, "Go with her." (Did I mention he started this miserable game?)
I'm just so mortified, that we walk to the booth. Maxine, says in her shy, 6-year-old voice, "Sorry."
The family looks up at us confused. "Huh?"
I stammer, "She just tossed her napkin over the booth." I spy what must be it, balled up on the middle of their table.
"Oh, we didn't even notice it." (What the heck? A dirty napkin comes flying over the booth and you don't notice it? The food is good, it's not that good. And I was listening a little, and their conversation was not that engaging.)
I apologized again. I felt my face flush (my face to regularly betrays me this way) as I sat back in our booth. At that point our waitress had picked up the check with our credit card and I left to warm the car.
When we were all strapped in the car, I realized I got screwed! That awkward apology was so Brent's responsibility, not mine! ("But you had to get out of the booth anyway," was his excuse. Not helping his case was the fact that he forgot the box of leftover pizza, which I had reminded him to grab before I bailed from the scene.)
Who knew that the dirty work of parenting (and marriage) would extend so far beyond changing dirty diapers?
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