Chick-Fil-PLAAAAYYYY!!

It has taken me 3 days to recover from what I consider to be the worst tantrum Little Ricky has thrown to date. I'm talking Linda-Blair-as-Reagan-in-The-Exorcist tantrum. When I think about it, I literally cringe.

Let's back up.

I woke up early Friday morning with a text from Fred-in-law... It's GO TIME!! Sister Ethel - remember, she's the cutest pregnant woman in the history of mankind - was in labor! I spent the next 10 minutes jumping on the bed yelling, "IT'S BABY DAY!!" Ricky did not appreciate my enthusiasm; he was still asleep.

Now Sister Ethel has been there for the birth of both of my children, so obviously I had to be there for her. The thought briefly crossed my mind that taking two small children to wait at the hospital might be a challenge, but that's what grandparents are for, right? To entertain my children! Thank you for your help, Father Fred, Mother Ethel, and Step Fred. Couldn't have done it without you.

All in all, we were at the hospital for about nine hours and Little Ricky was perfect. PERFECT! I could not have asked for a better-behaved, sweeter child. And that, my friends, is when I made my first mistake (okay, second mistake... letting him skip his nap may have been the first). My mistake was to loudly declare for all to hear how great Little Ricky was all day long! When Ricky joined us at the hospital I gushed (gushed!) about how funny and charming and entertaining and yes, even well-mannered, our firstborn child was all day long!

As I basked in the glow of the the birth of the newest Ethel (and let me just say, she is precious) and the great day we had, Ricky and I decided to have a celebratory dinner. I ignored the fact that it was already past Little Ricky's bedtime (my third mistake) and we took the kidlets to Chick-Fil-A. I know... we fancy.

So there we went on our merry way, with a napless Little Ricky who was awake on borrowed time alone. He even managed to fall asleep on the short ride from the hospital to Chick-Fil-A, which as any parent knows is a dead giveaway that it's probably time for bed. I ignored this sign. Fourth mistake.

As we walked into the restaurant (is Chick-Fila-A a restaurant? Oh, we so fancy) Little Ricky's eyes grew wide. There it was in all of it's glory... the indoor playground. And I thought, what's the harm in a few minutes of playtime while Ricky orders our dinner? Fifth mistake.

In hindsight, at least I can say that Little Ricky had fun playing for a few minutes before the tantrum ensued. He was fearless. Climbing, running, sliding... all with a big smile on his cherubic little face. Another parent even mentioned how adventurous my little guy is! Oh, I was proud. A little too proud, and a little too soon.

You see, the problem with all day long great behavior in an almost-two-year-old is eventually the other shoe will drop. The shit will hit the fan. And it did... shoes and shit and all.

Because then it was time to eat. Play was finished. That's right. Finished.

Guess what word Little Ricky did not want to hear at that moment? Finished.

All of the chicken nuggets and waffle fries in the entire world would not have convinced him that eating his dinner was more important than crawling through the giant plastic tubes (clean ones, too, I'm sure) of the playground.

And I found myself in the ultimate mama dilemma... let him cry or let him play? I'm a glutton for punishment, so I chose to let him cry. My inner school teacher reminded me that once I make a decision, I need to stick to it. Don't forget who the adult is, here! He's only (almost) two years old and what mom says goes. And God forbid that other parents in the restaurant think that I am a terrible mother for giving in and letting him play to stop the crying! So I chose to let them think how terrible of a mother I actually was by forcing my child to stop playing and eat his dinner. See how that works? You can't win.

Honestly, tantrums do not bother me. I can ignore screaming, crying, and flopping on the floor for an indefinite amount of time. My years of teaching special education and very young children has taught me to ignore bad behavior (or sad choices; thank you Love & Logic) and praise the positive behavior. Unfortunately, the practice of ignoring tantruming behavior is infinitely more difficult in public.

So there I sat, holding a writhing Little Ricky in my lap. He's wasn't just crying or screaming. He was cry-screaming. You know what I'm talking about. Cry-screaming is when a child gets so distraught that the crying and screaming turns into warbled noises that sound like a tortured, dying cat. A very loud dying cat.

And in the already limited vocabulary of your typical (almost) two-year-old, there is only one word Little Ricky can find amidst his pain and suffering:

"PLAAAAAYYY!!!"

It took all of my strength to keep him in my lap without looking like I was using all of my strength to keep him in my lap. I tried to stay calm and ignore the behavior. Ricky looked on in horror at our own mini Linda Blair. Throughout the entire episode he said only three words: "I. Am. Mortified."

I naively thought that after a few minutes the cry-screaming would die down. Sixth mistake.

At this point, Little Ricky turns tomato red, crocodile tears are streaming down his not-so-cherubic cheeks, he is sweating profusely, and to top it all off he's barefoot. Does he care that the entire restaurant is starting at us? Of course not. He just keeps cry-screaming the dreaded four letter word. PLAAAAYYY!!!

And the people just kept staring. And judging. Oh, how they judged.

In my attempt to try and ignore the behavior (right) and simultaneously find the humor in the situation, I sat there in the booth with a goofy grin on my face and absolutely no idea what to do next. Thank God for Ricky. By this point, he had had enough.

Ricky grabbed Linda Blair and threw him over his shoulder. Seconds later, out the door they went. I decided to stay and enjoy the rest of my dinner.

And two bites later, the Bulldog started to cry. Okay, I'm done.

Hastily I grabbed our food, retrieved Linda B's shoes, and the Bulldog and I hightailed it out of there without so much as a backwards glance. Lucy, OUT.

Both Little Ricky and the Bulldog fell asleep in the car on the way home. The silence was glorious.

Please, parents, learn from my mistake(s). And when it does happen to you - and I promise it will - know that you are not alone. And as my sweet Aunt Ethel pointed out to me... any parent who says it has never happened to them is a LIAR.