The kids were hungry when I got home from work at noon on Monday. They were both wearing tutus and swinging at each other. “It’s so weird; they were fine all morning…” said the sitter, confused. I wasn’t at all flummoxed. Even if I’m gone only a few hours, it takes skills to manage our post-work family reunions. Something akin to the talents of a boxing ref, a Zen Buddhist monk, and a short order cook. I set my briefcase down and muddled through. By now I know it helps to separate the children by lifting one of them to the kitchen counter. I’ll ask him or her to select our lunchtime music from the sticky stack of cds by the windowsill. “Here, grate some Parmesean,” I’ll say to the other, gesturing towards the table. This task takes concentration and offers quick calories. It’s my version of the “boil water” directive that people default to when a mom goes into labor.
Once I got everyone redirected on Monday, I stepped into the pantry in search of something for lunch. I hadn’t managed a grocery trip over the weekend. Tumbleweeds blew across the shelves. I looked at the fridge and it shrugged. Me and my cursed whole foods lifestyle. Always an ingredient, never a meal. “Let’s go get a bagel!” I said, quickly realizing that a restaurant rescue was the best option. I pulled the Parmesean rind out of my son’s mouth and wrestled him into his clothes. He, his sister and I piled into the car. The dashboard thermometer read 103 degrees.
It didn’t take long to drive to the bagel shop or to order our lunch. But it took us ninety minutes to eat it. I don’t know if it’s nerves or the thrill of new plumbing fixtures, but my children require an average of four to five trips to the bathroom anytime we’re out in public. If I’m by myself with them, that means all of us hauling in there together. Once we’re in the restroom, my kids are able to do most of the work themselves. It’s just the back-and-forth, back-and-forth interruptions. During our third loo trip in twenty minutes at the restaurant, I aided a newly-minted nanny caring for two small children. A smart, twenty-something girl, it was clear she’d been thrust unprepared into the world of toddler toileting. I watched her as she held one kid over the potty and tried to keep the other from licking the flush valve. 
Between encouraging my own children and helping the nanny, we were in the restroom for about twelve minutes. My kids and I finally emerged and returned to our table. There we found a college-aged couple sitting in our seats and digging into a tray filled with freshly-made salads and sandwiches. There was no sign of the food we’d barely started, nor of the bag of take-out I’d bought for my husband.
It’s not always the big blows in life that fell me, but the little, unexpected twists in my days. My son, who was holding my hand, dropped his arms to his sides. “Mommy,” he said, starting to cry, “why are those people at our table?” I waited for my daughter to unravel. Like me, she’s nostalgic about things like half-gummed bagels. That was when my feet got stuck. I knew the next fifteen minutes would require all the roles I’d donned when I first got home from work, plus many more: diplomat, philosopher, negotiator, judge. It was already almost 1:00 and my son was getting overtired and very hungry. Any minute he would morph into Contrary Larry. I picked him up and he buried his face in my neck. Swaying gently, I visualized my chat with the manager: calm and factual. I pried my feet from the crumb-filled carpet, took my daughter’s hand, and walked to the counter. “We were in the bathroom for a while and an employee threw our lunch away,” I explained. “We need our food replaced, including a to-go order.” My son’s sobs and my daughter’s drawn look proved I wasn’t angling for a free lunch. “Why…is…my…bay…gool…in…the…trash?” my son cried. I explained to him over and over again what had happened. It was an innocent mistake, no one meant to upset us. Each time I started, my daughter (surprisingly detached) groaned “not again…”
“Magician” would have been a welcome addition to my list of job titles as I awaited our new food. If I’d had a star-tipped wand, I would have made everyone in that room observe the perpetual motion of parents with young children. Families out in public are lumbering and slow not by choice, but by necessity. Intuitively people know that we’re all better off when children refrain from licking the condensation off of public toilets. The public simply needs to bring that knowing to the front of its consciousness every now and then. In the same way that it takes time to train seeing-eye dogs, it takes time to raise human beings. My spell would buy a little more patience in the world for this reality. An extra minute or two. Long enough catch some barely-started bagels before they disappear down a chute emblazoned with the words “Thank You.” 
Long ago, with 4 inquisitive and ACTIVE kids in tow, I dreamed of the ideal design for a kid: they would eat AND excrete (in that order) once a day – as predictable as clockwork and reset-able, too, like a clock. Maybe the appointed hour would be in the morning – say at 7:30 a.m. OR maybe, pondered I, enlarging on my fantasy, it more ideally would be at 7:30 at night. But, importantly, I GOT TO CHOOSE. In this ideal world, there would be NO MORE rushing to the back of a grocery store, or hardware store or lumber yard – climbing over crates and piles of merchandise, workers’ lockers and OTHER down and dirty details of the store that we would just as soon not know about. No more anxiety about such things as the bagel disappearance or my shopping cart (waiting out in the store) having all my thoughtfully gathered items re-dispersed BACK to merchandise shelves. OH
NO !! And wintertime was the worse – off with the coat, mittens, hat of my child; park my purse; take MY coat off – then WHERE would be the convenient and CLEAN surface to put this stuff ?
Tension building, as I suspended my child over the filthy potty – “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING !” I warned. “NOW !!! let GO !! ” OH NO !! NO toilet paper !! NO !! don’t YOU flush – I will !”
Back on with the coats – grab the purse, back by the crates and lockers – ahhhhh – out again into the warm, familiar, neon lit world of shopping. Disaster diverted, once more.
Oh no! Sometimes our staff becomes overeager when they’re cleaning up in the dining room. I hope that we replaced your food quickly and cheerfully — and I’m so sorry that we put you and your children through that! And yes, a little more patience and a little more mindfulness would make this world better for kids, and in turn better for all of us.
John, thanks for writing. It was an innocent mistake, as I told my son. The manager on duty was understanding of our dilemma and replaced our food. If my kids’ bathroom pleas had been less urgent, I would have left a note on the table that we’d be back. Our table of food was ample and pristine, (including a heavy bag of take-out), so I thought it would be ok while we were away. Maybe “We’ll be right back!” cards for parents to carry in their wallets should be my next entrepreneurial project!