Most times we enter a restaurant with a certain amount of dread. But Brian and I were actually looking forward to a glass of wine, some good food and a few laughs with our friends. The boys were behaving, there was a nice open space next to the restaurant where they could run around. All of the forces of nature were aligning for us to have a great experience.
My girlfriend and I got to actually sit down to order appetizers and have a cocktail, while the Dads remained outside with all the kids. My mouth was anticipating the tuna tartare followed by Kansas City style ribs. Mmm.
We were inside no more than 5 minutes when the manager comes over to whisper in my friend's ear. Next thing she's telling me that I am needed outside, everything is fine, but Gregory has fallen. Damn it, my drink is on it's way. I should have known this would end badly. Brian and I were feeling way too good, maybe even a tad over confident.
Against every fiber of my being, my first question to the manager was not if I could get the tuna to go. I inquired if my child was conscious; which he was. He had fallen and hit his head on a large rock in the courtyard. As I approached, it occurred to me that Gregory could easily be a victim in a slasher movie. There was an endless supply of hysterical screaming as blood poured from his head down into his face. Goodbye ribs, hello ER.
25 minutes, 5 linen napkins, and 2 macaroni 'n cheeses with truffle oil (to go) later, Gregory and I are signed in at the nurses station of the ER. Charlie and Brian went off in search of food. Thankfully Gregory's wound did not require stitches, but his laceration needed to be glued shut. We were "fast tracked" to the non-severe section of the ER, far away from the contagious looking man wrapped in a dirty blanket, drenched in a feverish sweat, who of course decided to lay across all available seating next to the dirty waiting room toys that Gregory insisted on playing with.
This new waiting room was small, clean and empty. Charlie was able to eat and stay out of trouble, while we tended to Gregory; which entailed us physically restraining him. I held his legs, Brian pinned his arms, and the nurse had his head, while the doctor cleaned the wound to prep it for tape then glue. That boy cried like they were gutting him from head to toe. It was absolutely the worst sound I've heard as his poor face turned about as red as the blood that was smeared all over it.
The crying escalated to flat out shrieking, Charlie came running in with his dinner. He yelled, "Gregory! You're being so annoying, I can't even eat my pasta." He turns and looks at the doctor, "Don't you think he's being annoying?" So much for brotherly concern.
Now that the whole experience is behind us, I wonder, had our little bloody mishap not occurred, would we have had to leave the restaurant early (and bitter), with our dinners half eaten because Charlie decided to fling his pasta on the wall or Gregory spit his water at the next table? Perhaps the ER visit was the lesser of 2 evils - no food wasted, no embarrassing scenes that forced us to slip undetected out the emergency exit, leaving a wad of cash for our thankful waitress.
Was this the work of a higher power punishing us, trying to send the message that children - more specifically my children - do not belong in adult restaurants? Or could this have been a message of mercy, saving us from a fate far worse than a bloody forehead and an ER visit? I guess we'll never know, but from now on we're going to stay home and order pizza.
