We managed to get ourselves out of the house yesterday, despite the absolute crap weather that has forced itself upon us of late. After naptime, everyone dressed and jumped into the family wagoneer for a trip to the Boulevard Mall Play area, which consists of two large plastic cars and a plastic bridge. Very WT, but hey, the kids loved it.
Then we packed ourselves up again, and went in search of the perfect mass marketed restaurant in which we could feed three children and ourselves with minimal effort, and escape with no additional charges for damage to the interior finishes.
They get five stars for catering to kids. Sam, Noah, & Aidan all got cups of crayons and six-page activity books, courtesy of the National Park Service & Chilis Restaurants. Not just the requisite paper placemat here, folks. The cups were covered and actually spill proof. And they had four different kinds of juice. The menu was minimal, but the food was good.
However, the highlight of the night came during our search of suburbia for a restaurant. We had struck out at one place, where the girl at the front desk, when I asked how long a wait it was for a party of five, answered, “Ummmmm. (pauses. Looks through seating chart and actual restaurant space) I’m not sure.” Yeah. Buh-Bye.
Back in the car, we started looking up and down the road for another place. Leah looks at me and says, “Oh look, sweetheart. There’s a Hooters. We could go there.” Did I fail to mention that her voice carried the slightest tinge of sarcasm?
Before I could reply, two voices floated out of the back of the minivan.
“Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot.”