(Marybeth Hicks is a writer and author of the features “then again.” and “A View from the Pew.” A wife of 17 years and mother of four children from first grade to freshman year, she uses her columns to share her perspective on issues and experiences that shape families and the communities we share. Marybeth began her writing career more than 20 years ago in the Reagan White House. She also has worked in marketing and public relations positions in corporate and agency settings. Mostly, she spends a lot of time in her mini-van, where the real work of parenting actually happens. Learn more about Marybeth and her column at www.marybethhicks.com.)
Ever since our two older girls stopped ordering off the children's menu, we don't go out to dinner much. They eat like linebackers, despite their angular adolescent figures, and one of them only likes steak. It gets expensive.
But this is the first day of a four-day weekend. Instead of letting them sleep in, I inflict a day of hardship on my children by requiring them to help me clean the house. Including under the bathroom sink. And also mildew in the shower. By late afternoon, even I am sick of the chores I invent. The kitchen is so clean, having been wiped down a couple of times, that I'm not willing to mess it up by cooking dinner. So I announce we are going out to eat.
What ensues is an all-family restaurant negotiation. There stand the six of us, coats on, ready to go, trying to agree on cuisine. Chinese? No. Pizza? We eat too much pizza. Mexican? The lines are too long. Italian? Too expensive. Every other suggestion is the neighborhood pub up the road by the shopping center. They have burgers and beer for the grown ups, a pretty good kid's menu, and it's never crowded. Plus, it's not too pricey. We're agreed.
Now, I should mention it is Valentine's eve, and since my husband and I are going out the next night on our own, we bring little Valentine's gifts for the four kids. Each one gets a card and a book. This will be important later.
We get to the restaurant and, as usual, there are open tables, no waiting. I ask if we can sit near the fireplace but the waiter says it isn't working, so he seats us at the front of the room, a mere four feet from a television screen the size of Canada. And then, to be nice, he puts on Spongebob Squarepants.
Don't get me wrong, I like Spongebob. It's creative and cool, and even if the characters get naked, it doesn't matter because they're animated sea creatures. It's low risk, from a parenting perspective. The dining room has two additional TV monitors hanging on the walls, and those feature a celebrity basketball game in which child star Frankie Muniz is playing.
Well, needless to say, I cannot get the attention of my children in this room if my hair catches fire — unless, while performing stop-drop-and-roll, I were to block their view of Spongebob. My husband and I pique their interest briefly by handing out Valentine's gifts, but I mean briefly. Like three minutes. After that, their jaws slacken and return to Patrick's misadventures, or during a commercial, to Frankie's defensive skills. The waiter manages to get them to articulate their dinner orders through the drool that is now hanging off their lips.
This seems pathetic to me, so I start to point out that watching TV isn't very social. When the food comes and they're still glazed over, I ask the waiter to turn Spongebob off. What I mean is, actually cut the power to the larger-than-life images dancing behind my head. Instead, he changes the channel on the big screen to the celebrity basketball game. God forbid we eat a cappella.
But I am not deterred. I want family fun. Friday night karaoke is about to begin and I ask for the song menu. The waiter seems surprised, which offends me a little. Just because I don't want my kids to watch Spongebob while they eat doesn't mean I'm not fun. Whatever.
I peruse the list but right away, the high school freshman is resisting. No, she won't sing a Dixie Chicks song. Not even with her sister. Certainly not with me. I put her name on a slip of paper anyway and send it to the karaoke guy, but when he calls out the song, she won't go up and instead gets huffy.
Daughter number two and I decide to sing Patsy Cline's Crazy — the most popular karaoke song in America. So we're not original. We think we can hit the notes. While we're up there trashing this country classic, I look over at my table to find the high schooler reading her new book, as opposed to slashing her wrists with her dinner knife, and everyone else looking away with expressions that say, “I don't know those two. If we leave at the same time, it's just a coincidence.” Only my first-grader is actually watching us sing.
When we do leave, I feel dopey for working so hard to create family fun. I know you're supposed to let family evenings unfold as they will and not expect everyone to have the script from an old episode of The Cosby Show. I'm wishing I remembered that the mom of a high schooler should try to impersonate a potted plant to the degree she is able. And I realize that after a long day of chores, all they really want to do is eat and watch Spongebob. Together. As a family.
