Unto Us A Felon Is Born

We  decided to try the Mexican restaurant by the school on a very cold Saturday shortly after the boy child was born and right before Christmas.  We had never been there before because it looked a bit sketchy, but Taco Mac's wait was not conducive to a two and a half year old, and I was tired of deciding where we should go to eat. Off we went.

Dinner was less than stellar, but I got my cheese dip fix, the oldest  was well behaved during the meal, and the newbie slept. It was a fine family meal without any drama...and then...(I love ellipses)

As my husband went up to pay for our meal, my toddler saw a pretty red box on the wall by the cash register.  This is another reason why I hate sit down restaurants with cash registers, but I digress.  The pretty red box happened to be the FIRE ALARM for the ENTIRE strip mall, icluding the really nice Italian place next door!

My glorious husband grabbed the girl and scooped up the baby in his bucket seat, shouting "Sorry!" in a voice that only coaches and ex-coaches possess to the patrons of the joint.  Then he bolted like the yellow bellied coward that he is, leaving me to attempt to muddle through my tarnished Spanish skills.  As I am attempting to apologize and wait for the authorities, various members of the kitchen staff are bolting out the back door; I'm assuming that their visas had expired?  I decided to wait it out.  I had the keys to the car, and I was silently praying that the criminal and her accomplice froze to death.  The only one who I had any concern for was the infant, who stoically endures enough at the hands of his sister.

After countless mean looks from not only the patrons but also the now short-handed kitchen staff, I decided that the family had suffered long enough and went to the car.  As we get them all bundled into their respective safety devices, we begin to hear the sirens.  My “better” half shouts to me, "Drive, woman, drive!!!"  I refuse his kind request and tell him that fair is fair; he deserted me in the restaurant, so he has to go and fess up to the men in uniform.  Reluctantly, the deserter/coward/father of my children speaks with the firemen while, I  in turn have a little heart to heart with my daughter about pretty red boxes, telling her that the sack man (another story) was, indeed, coming to her house, and Santa had absolutely stricken her from any list of his, including the one entitled "Coal". 

The next morning in a good faith effort at quality parenting, I took the felon to the fire department so that she could get the bejeezus scared out of her and hopefully redeem herself  in the eyes of Santa.  I marched her into that garage, and I made her tell the men what she did.  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and in her frightened two and a half year old speech, the story came out.  The men listened intently, nodding their heads and looking to me for confirmation.  One asked when this happened.  I told him, and he said, “That was YOU?”  He reminded me that the owner of the art gallery on the other side of the place had driven 30 miles to ensure the safety of her products.  I winced in shame. 

Meanwhile, my daughter is being shown around a fire truck and inside the firehouse.  She left the premises with a fireman’s hat, a bag of candy, a book on fire safety, and all those firemen wrapped around her finger. I left being pissed off.