We used the $20 giftcard one of Brian's clients gave him for Christmas, and took the baby to Hoss's! I laughed my ass off preparing for the trip: Daddy was so worried Hoss's would be jam-packed on a Friday night, that his dinner plans had us rivalling the blue-hairs in their let's-beat-the-crowd early arrival. He actually -- get this -- went into the nursery at 5:30 to wake the soundly napping baby so that we could leave for the restaurant. Which, by the way, is about five miles down the road. But this Daddy of ours had to beat all the other cars there by passing irrationally and tromping the gas. He was convinced every single car on 322, going east and west, was heading toward Hoss's and would beat us there, thereby creating a Godforsaken LINE we'd have to stand in forever with what he was sure by then would be a screaming, head-spinning, scene making devil-child.
So we arrived at dinner at 5:45 and ordered within three minutes of walking in the door. No line, no worries. I do get a kick out of people who have no reason to be familiar with babies and their complete unfamiliarity with babies. Our host, the 18-year old manager, first asked if Cayden would color with crayons or eat them (we passed on the crayons), then asked if we wanted to order a milk for him to drink with his dinner. I was so that oblivious, yet intending-to-be-helpful person a year ago! I mean how was this kid supposed to know that first of all, my baby is too young for cow's milk, and secondly, if you put a regular cup -- one without a leakproof lid, handles and a rubber straw or sip-top -- the bus boys would have a big milky mess to clean up from the table, booth and floor. Because Cayde LOVES TO THROW THINGS TO THE GROUND. Kind of a new thing for him, but he gets a kick out of it.
So anyway, last night he and I enjoyed the salad bar. For him: ham cubes, green peas, noodles and carrots from the chicken noodle soup, beans from the ham and bean soup, an egg yolk, peaches, pears and cottage cheese (hey, he stays quiet and entertained, as long as he's stuffing his face). And it reminded me of the last time I ate at Hoss's more than a year ago, and using last year's gift card from the same clients of Brian's. It had to have been in early March, because it was the weekend of the state wrestling championship. I remember wearning my new maternity jeans, which kept sliding down, and completely pigging out at the salad bar, enjoying the best meal I'd eaten in a long time since the first trimester was over and veggies were appealing again.
Then tonight Chicken shared my Mazza platter from Shab's: hommous, baba ghannouj, tabbooli, falafel and fatoosh. (Grandpa Bill calls it rabbit food and makes funny faces whenever he hears about my favorite Greek treat) Cayden loved it. Although it became very clear tonight that Mama can no longer feed baby finger foods. Food on a spoon? That's OK from Mama. But if it's a finger food, like a pita bite with some eggplant goo on it, Cayden's fingers have to put it in his mouth; no one else's. Which makes dinner a little messier, but a whole lot more fun.
Anyway, our shared dinner made me think back to the last time I had a Mazza platter (and incidentally, the last time I saw that skeeved out look from my father-in-law): the day after Chicken was born. Brian got me a Mazza platter from Shab's and brought it to me in the hospital for dinner on July 29. I totally savored it for dinner, but then I spent the rest of that tortured, trying first night guessing hopelessly at what would make my newborn stop crying. And I vividly remember the parsley smell of Cayden's cries and worrying he was reacting to my dinner.
Turns out he just has parsley cries every now and then; I smelled one last week, in fact.
Anyway, the last two dinners have inspired nice trips down memory lane for me, comparing Cayden's "firsts" to my last similar experience.
Oh, and here's on of the Chicken sleeping a few nights ago. My dad says I used to sleep like this, too. We now get at least one of these poses every day or so, at the end of a nap or at the end of a nighttime sleep cycle. Crack. Me. Up.
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