Since certain bloggers have made a name for themselves writing about poop * and puke, I thought that I should not let this opportunity pass.
Terry and I (and the kids) were invited to dinner on Saturday by a new family at church. Amanda had enjoyed playing with her daughter, so we were looking forward to getting to know them better. Dinner was delicious, the table in the dining room was set when we got there, and when we left the table after eating, they insisted that we just leave the dishes on the table. This woman has the hospitality gene. No one in her family is able to drink milk, but she buys milk when she has guests in case they drink it. They don't drink coffee, but she brewed a pot of decaf just for us after dinner. Kyle's place at the table was set with a cute little Mickey Mouse rocket-shaped plate.
Kyle hadn't eaten any dinner, in spite of these attempts to make him feel at home. He was more interested in going back outside and playing on the swingset or with the Little People barn that had been out just for his enjoyment. Dinner was a delicious Chicken Cordon Bleu type of thing. Very kid friendly, really. Kyle should have eaten the ham that was inside, or some of the breaded chicken cutlet, or some rice. But, no, he really wasn't eating. I took one of the small pieces of the chicken with some ham on it and shoved it into his mouth. He started gagging. He retched. I took the chicken out, but then up came the aforementioned milk--all over him.
Thank goodness we are potty training, because he is past the age when I carried spare clothes. Knowing that we would be there until almost bedtime, I had brought his pajamas as his "backup" outfit. So, I wiped him down, changed him, and washed my hands (although all night I kept smelling it). As we returned to the table, I gave them permission to share this story, and stated that we would understand if we were never asked for a return visit. Our gracious hosts just laughed. "There was no harm done, and it was funny," the husband assured me. This is sharply contrasted with my husband, who glared at me as Kyle began gagging and even mumbled a "Why did you do that?" knowing that Kyle can be a bit dramatic and headstrong when it comes to what he wants to eat. I answered him sensibly: "I thought he should eat something."
The rest of dinner was fine, although Kyle's stunt did gain him his desired dismissal from the table. Everyone enjoyed the Apple Betty that I had brought for dessert. But, wait, there's more. The girls were having a great time, and our hosts are the kind of flexible types who can just invite an eight year old over to spend the night on the spur of the moment. Amanda spent the night. As far as I know, all of her bodily fluids were contained, and I think she even went to sleep when it was required. The next day at church, I was assured that they had a great time, and Amanda behaved, and that the girls were already trying to negotiate a Sunday afternoon playdate. The dad seemed willing, but said it was up to me. Amanda and I already had some plans for that afternoon, so I declined. After church, I called to get some more information on our activity, and it turns out that we weren't going to be able to do what we had planned. Amanda was upset and asked if she could have her playdate. Terry and I both agreed that Amanda shouldn't go over there (because really, enough is enough), but if she wanted to see if her friend could come over, that was fine with us. She ran back inside where that family was still talking, and emerged with her friend. We went to Taco Bell for lunch, and were ordering when Terry's cell phone rang. "Do you have my daughter?" our gracious host asked. "Yeah," he answered, and then asked the girls, "Did you ask your parents if you could come?" The daughter looked at Amanda. "I thought you did."
Yes, normally before agreeing to a playdate, I do look the parent in the eye and make sure that she is fine with the arrangement, but since we had just discussed the possibility of Amanda coming over, I was fairly certain that they'd be fine with losing their only child for the afternoon as opposed to gaining another one.
Oh, well--What's a little kidnapping between friends?
*While Big Mama claims that all she writes about is poop, I could not find a post from recent weeks to which I could link.