"I Spray"

My wife’s thirty-second birthday had already been a very un-celebratory day by the time a decision about evening dining had come around. Our usual inability to conclusively decide and agree on an establishment to take ourselves and the kids to had manifested itself into an ugly roaring ball of frustration, bitter looks, and trite comments and so we decided to try to re-tame the ‘Olive Garden.’

Although our previous dining experience had not been bad at all with a highlight when our son, while eating a ice cream Sunday’s cherry, threw the stem over his shoulder and onto the occupied table behind us. Shock and disbelief made way to uproarious laughter as we saw the action and his nonchalant attitude about it evidenced by a wry little smile.

Hoping that our already tired and exhausted children would turn a 180 on their whiny and agitated temperaments, we both put on our optimistic attitudes in the face of obvious disaster: yes, we are as good at lying to ourselves about these sorts of things as any other of “those” people that occupy public spaces with their unruly and undisciplined children.

And so, into the restaurant we went with our crying, temper-tantrum-throwing, disdain drawing entourage en tow.

The hostess led us back to table located near the middle of the room yet in full view of dozens of patrons, a fact that will become painfully irksome later in this story. The table was a typical four-top, and I got to sit in the wait staff hating isle based seat in an already crowded room. A constant ‘bump and apologize through gritted teeth’ routine started due to my location which was the first sign that this may not have been the best idea, yet, given the day, I was not fazed by this in the least.

We order our many varied tastes of food via our ever so non-enthralled waiter (he can obviously see that whatever tip he’s going to get from us will not cover the amount of work he’s going to have to do to clean up this space after we depart). Jenny and I order more adult entrees: I would have tried the Chicken Scampi (my personal favorite), but my wife chides me that it’s all I ever get, so I ventured towards something from an adjacent menu item. Joey goes after his now trademark ‘macaroni and cheese’ while Jess opts from chicken fingers. We reward Jocie with her own menu option, yet, I’m wondering to myself why we are even bothering ordering it for her… in my mind, we should just tell the waiter to pour it directly on the floor, which is where most of the bread sticks, Cheerios, ravioli chunks, and crotons that we’ve given her seem to have found their way to by now anyways.

As we are finishing up our appetizers of soup, salad, and toasted ravioli (my favorite at this particular venue), the waiter is on approach with a landing-pad sized tray full of our food along with an assistant in tow, when I see my older daughter start to gag from what I initially mistakenly think is from a breadstick (and note that she has never tried an Olive Garden breadstick again without announcing the title of this article).

Mother and father watch in disbelief as a stream of liquid emanates from our daughters mouth sufficient to have been generated from a fire hydrant. It makes at rather horrible landing on her older brothers shoulder and flows down his arms and torso finding a resting place in his lap.

A brief look of horror fills Jessamyn’s face before another onslaught of regurgitation cycles into another stream that is this time re-directed onto the table in front of us.

Silence befalls the room, and I am keenly aware at this moment that we have become more towards the far end of the “those parents” meter than I’m really comfortable being.

Waiter and assistant stand in shock at what is taking place in front of them. That tip he might have been thinking about earlier is farthest from his memory.

The table of high school teenagers in full winter Prom dress apparel at the neighboring table is more shocked than we are. In fact, everyone is silent and staring not at the children, but at the parents… “What were they thinking?” “What did they do to that poor little girl?” “Someone should call Children’s Services…” These are the thoughts that befall embarrassed parents minds in moments like these.

Time stops.

I’m really hoping that I can just wake up from this nightmare, roll over and go back to sleep like I would normally do…. Yet, I can’t seem to wake…

Phrases and mantras from my youth pass through my mind trying to draw my mind away from the horrific situation mere feet in front of me:

“Calgon: Take me away.”

“Baby steps to the elevator…”

“If you build it, they will come…”

“R-O-L-A-I-D-S spells relief…”

“Bring out yer dead…. …. Bring out yer dead…” “I’m not dead yet” “Oh stop yammering, you’ll be dead in a moment…”

At this moment, there are multitudes of life scenarios that would be far more appealing than this place at this time…. Even a prison cell would be more welcoming than this.

An inappropriate statement from my older son breaks the moment: “Daddy, Jessamyn just sprayed me and I want my Macaroni and Cheese.”

We take a deep breath and push ourselves back into the world again to take on our roles as parents as we arrive back from the vacations of our thoughts. The room seems to return to whatever previously occupied their fancy as if none of this ever happened. Waiter and wait staff place trays on stands and go to get us an uncountable number of napkins to assist with the now growing mess on our table top.

Jenny quickly rushes a still sickening daughter out of purview of the diners and into the ladies restroom in an effort to clean her thoroughly drenched outfit.

I’m left to clean a table that looks more like someone dumped a five gallon bucket of pea soup with bits of bread stick onto it than anything else.

During this whole event, my son is still only worried about his dinner, and shows no concern about the marinade he has become.

I clean up the table as best I can with the hopes that no one will remember that this happened and try to make our table look somewhat neat and presentable.

Upon returning from the bathroom, my wife informs me that we will need to leave immediately as our daughter is still ill and her clothing needs an immediate changing. This is a welcome invitation, as I can't wait to put this memory in our past.

We wrap kids in jackets and pack a neglected meal into boxes to head home.

While focusing on the preparations for departure, I failed to notice the slinking off of my obviously ill daughter towards the front door. My wife points out my failing parental duties, and I rush off to try to corral her back towards our comfort zone, yet, while reaching for her, I fail to note my dangerous proximity to a half-wall that separates my son’s head from my waist.

“Thunk”

The audible equivalent of hitting a wall with a sledge hammer resounds from my actions as Joey’s head is slammed into the well trimmed wall edge.

I’m again thrown into the cross-hairs of a malice yielding audience that is now bombarding me with disdain like bullets from a rail-gun. At this point, I'm well beyond caring what they could possibly think of me, so I try to regain control of a trespassing daughter and at the same time try to triage a son inflicted with a fatherly induced head injury.

We race to the car like thieves stealing gold from Fort Knox and try to put as much distance between the memories of dinner and ourselves.

Jessamyn now enlightens us on her viewpoint of the situation: “I’m sorry I sprayed.”

She turns to her brother and tries her best at an apology: “I’m sorry I sprayed you brother.”

In thinking this event was over yet wanting to provide comfort and consoling, we placed our daughter into our bed and my wife tended to her needs while I prepared the rest of the family for bedtime.

Another “spraying” even took place in our bed with Jenny acting as the catcher’s mitt for Jessamyn. “I sprayed mommy” was how it was described by Jessamyn to me as I took care of her while Jenny changed.

A long night of tending to an understandably needy daughter was endured by both parents before the next day which say the passing of the illness from one and on to another family member as Joey took up the torch of “spray.”

A now frequent story is told from Jessamyn as she passes by the Olive Garden restaurant now and she tells everyone “that’s where I sprayed. I sprayed the restaurant. I sprayed Joey. And I sprayed mommy. I sprayed.”

jp