I Spy

Things that are inextricably linked in my mind: Bacon and eggs. Salt and pepper. Bert and Ernie. Peanut butter and jelly. Captain and Tenille. My daughter and restaurant bathrooms.

It’s true. And it doesn’t matter whether she goes at home before we leave or not. Her cue is the arrival of the food. Actually, it’s more like seven minutes after the arrival of the food. Just long enough for her to eat whatever she is interested in eating. Of course, at that point, my plate is practically still full.

I’d make her wait if I didn’t know that, more often than not, she needs to be in there for more than a minute... if you catch my (tmi) drift. And, because she has my undivided attention while we are trapped in the bathroom, she tends to take even longer. On the inside I’m screaming because I can’t remember the last uninterrupted meal I’ve had out with the kids, but on the outside we’re making up stories or playing “I Spy” in the stall.

Every minute or so I have to ask her if she’s finished-- because if I don’t ask her she’ll never volunteer that crucial piece of information.

On Saturday night we were out at a place we go to practically once a weekend. By now, we’ve spy-ed every smidge of color and every scratch on every stall more than once. I’ve hit the wall. “Are you finished?” “Are you finished?” “Honey, are you finished?”

“Mommy, I spy… a not patient person.”

I love that kid.