The past few months have been more about some home cooking, though that's really hard to do now, too. We keep Spanish hours because that's when I'm freed up; start cooking after 8, eat at 10. We'll see if I can stick to a new goal of 1-2 new recipes per week.
Lunch today was even more trying, so at the moment I can't help but switch to Mommy Blog venting mode. At super cute trendo Maison Midi, I shoveled down huge bites of Niçoise salad into my mouth between chasing James down La Brea, trying to prevent him from stepping in dog shit and eating cigarette butts. If I picked him up, he'd throw a fit. (Yet he gave his papa a much easier time of it. Hmm, something else going on there.)
See, he will NOT sit in a high chair. I love the guy, but a part of me feels jealous pangs when I see wee ones just chilling in their designated seats and politely eating as I chase my kid and keep him away from hustling waiters and bussers. (He's good at finding dangerous kitchen entrances.) Plus I'm mad at myself for not getting him used to it earlier because I always assumed if any baby would be cool in restaurants, it would me MINE, dammit.
This could be Major Parenting Failure, or maybe there's no training to be done -- personality and strong agenda might be asserting themselves, so be it. (I also feel like the local blog world is whizzing by and I'm missing out on all the fun. But that's exclusively my fault.) At least for the time being, until he learns that sitting at a table and sharing food with people is an integral part of civilized life. I think it's safe to say we won't be stuck in this exhausting routine when he hits double digits. Right?