Fryburglar

We ate out for lunch yesterday as I squeezed one final Shamrock Shake out of the season.

Packing up everyone from at the restaurant is always a challenge. Between cleaning the sticky off the fingers, and picking up the food that I feel too guilty to leave on the floor, I can lose track of the kids. That’s especially true while eating at clown-themed restaurants with giant playgrounds near our table.

I cleaned while the kids roamed. Abbie climbed the equipment. Ian stood at the bottom dreaming of what might be someday. Tory stared at the clown statue sitting on a bench, hopefully not developing emotional scars that will manifest in uncontrolled crying when we go to the circus someday.

Finally, every one and thing was clean enough, everyone had their coats on, and I was ready to pack the boys into their stroller. Abbie wandered as I buckled in the boys, presumably to take one final climb.

As I finished buckling, I glanced up to find Abbie climbing not on the playground equipment, but into the chair of a nearby table. The child who had been seated there had left to play, leaving his food unguarded. Abbie climbed up and grabbed a fry like she belonged to the grandparents sitting next to her.

I was mortified. I hurriedly snatched Abbie as she chewed on her ill-gotten gain, apologizing the entire time.

On our way out the door, I passed their table again. I apologized again. The grandmother told me it was okay. The grandfather gave her another fry.