Few things can delight, inspire, agitate and confound all at once quite like a trip to the land of Hypothetical. Everyone's had that conversation around the water-cooler at work about what they'd do if they won the big lottery jackpot. The truly prepared among us have even cemented their zombie-apocalypse survival scenarios. The surreal joy comes when you find yourself in a horns-locking beast-battle of an argument with somebody over a scenario unlikely ever to unfold.
Megan and I tend to spend our Sunday afternoons or evenings huddled up in some cozy booth somewhere being catered to by a helpful wait-staff. This weekly ritual has become our time to let go and relax, catch up on the escapades that we each encountered on our respective weekends off (having an off-hours schedule for me means we sort of have our own weekends), share any interesting things we've read in the week before as well as strategize on the week ahead. The topic came around to a favorite rant for us; children at restaurants.
Before anyone gets the wrong idea, we're completely fine with kids of any age at a restaurant, that is, so long as they are seen and not heard. Nothing quite ruins a relaxing and expensive meal like hearing a toddler shrieking across the room as if it were a South American Howler Monkey being tortured by a logger. The topic started off this time thanks to a heated debate that went on the prior week on a blog we both follow. The blog, Etiquette Bitch, is a younger, hipper Miss Manners and it amazed me that when the author merely suggested that adults tend to their screaming children in public, she received some rather heated exchanges from some parents out there. How is it scandalous to expect parents to actually parent? We both pondered this as we set about scanning Fuddrucker's to see a number of families all with well-behaved kids. Parenting did seem possible without the drama.
It was on the way home we got to take our stroll down Hypothetical Lane.
"Megan, you'll love this. You know that family of four that came in before us?" I asked as I weaved my way through traffic towards the highway on-ramp.
"Yeah, what about them?"
"Well I was in the restroom stall next to them when I heard the dad and son come in. While the dad was using the urinal his kid was just jabbering at him and I heard the kid inform his dad that the woman's restroom had chairs and a couch and a fireplace!"
"Wow, they must have really remodeled since I last used it," she told me.
It was here I felt justified in explaining why I'd be a poor father and should never be allowed to procreate.
"Thank god we aren't having kids, because our kid would be either the most agile-minded or warped thing around. If that were my kid I'd have told him there were also gingerbread cookies in the woman's bathroom and a magical elf."
She was quick to note that this would neither make our child smart or warped it would just make the kid never trust daddy. I reflected on the victory this would be for me since Scooter (at this point I felt the kid deserved a name and why not one that would guarantee him a beating in school to give him character and harden him up) wouldn't come to me for help with homework. She took that in stride, but I couldn't help pondering further and worrying about Scooter's education.
"Of course, if you taught him, he wouldn't ever learn any history."
"I know history, you bastard!" she shot back.
A quick query on name of the 16th U.S. president vindicated my thoughts that this wasn't true, though she stuck by her guns that after I revealed the name she KNEW who the hell Lincoln was, thank me very much. Fortunately her good sense reigned in the novelty of the conversation-which-bordered-on-argument.
She asked, "Um, are we fighting over how we're going to raise our ridiculously named imaginary child we're never going to have?"
"I don't know," I countered. "Let's just agree hypothetically to never have kids."
"It's a deal."
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