Picture yourself there. If you haven’t graced this particular establishment, simply replace it with another equally depressing, factory food hell hole. High chairs, unlimited breadsticks and mix ‘n’ match pastas are all good signs you’re on the right track. We were only there because we were catching a movie right after work and had to eat by the theatre to make it on time.
Now picture an endless stream of annoying, sticky, bratty children being seated all around you. Now imagine you’re 5 weeks pregnant and freaked right the fuck out by it.
So we’re sitting there, glaring at ignorant parents and rolling our eyes at the precocious little rugrat beside us, when my husband suddenly blurts out, “This is not good!”
“What? You mean how much neither of us likes kids?”
“God yes, what have we done?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a problem!”
“And you know what the worst part is Leis? This is the kind of restaurant we’re going to have to eat in now. Fuck.”
This is of course when we began throwing around lies to justify our situation. Ours will be different…we’ll have lots of babysitters so we can go out alone…we’ll only have the one, it’s got to be way easier…
Please let it all come true.