Put the knife down

When a family outing descends into something verging on a hostage situation, Sophie White has an epiphany about dining out post-kids

There comes a time in every parent’s life when the will to eat out in nice restaurants trumps the knowledge that, should you attempt to do so, your spawn will dedicate themselves to completely thwarting your efforts. This isn’t to say that eating out with kids is impossible — there’s a good window of time in the early months.

When I meet friends with babies in the Slug Phase — the first nine months, basically, when all they can do is blink and cry — I urge them to make hay and squeeze in as many meals out as possible. I can tell they think this is weird advice because I, too, remember a time when I thought a restaurant was no place for a baby.

This was before I realised the din of a restaurant is, in fact, the perfect level of white noise that lulls most Slug-Phase Infants. After the Slug Phase comes the Grab Absolutely Everything In Sight phase and this is, unfortunately, when parents are forced back underground to wait out the following phases: Throw Sh*t Everywhere (nine-12 months); Spit Everything Back Into Hand And Examine It Before Smearing It On Passing Strangers (12-18 months) and the Age Of The Sh*t Fit (feels like an eternity but actually lasts from 18 months to age three).

The older one is just coming out of his restaurant hiatus and I have embraced my nearest branch of Milano accordingly. I used to think I’d never be a Milano person, in the same way I always assumed I’d lovingly make all my baby’s meals from scratch. You learn compromise as a parent. Milano doesn’t hate me and my children and, as a parent, that’s the best I can hope for in a dining experience. Sidenote: This is not a #ad situation by the way; I’m not #spon by Milano.

Sadly, as much as Milano is happy to see me and my sticky spawn, the other diners may be less so. You see, first-time parents of tiny, compliant Slug-Phase babies should never be exposed to me — harried mother-of-many (OK, it’s only two, but it feels like more). I’m like the ghost of their parenting future. They see me shouting at my kids, not even noticing the crap in my hair, and they lose all hope about this parenting gig.

Last week, I was screaming “put the knife down” at the older one — a fairly routine moment in my life — when I became aware of the dream-crushing taking place at the next table. Moments before, they had been cooing at an adorable, serene newborn; now, they were getting an unwanted dose of reality, and it wasn’t pretty. They haven’t slept a full night in months — pretending that it all gets easier is the least we can do.

I’m dishing up some pizza to soften the blow of our return to the bunker. This cheat’s pizza is an instant whole-family pleaser.

“After the newborn Slug Phase comes the Grab Absolutely Everything In Sight Phase”