Scenes from a Clown-Themed Restaurant

We took the kids out to eat last night. Wanting the least stressful experience possible, we chose our favorite fast food, clown-themed restaurant. It has kids meals stuffed with toys plus an indoor playground, giving the children absolutely no reason to complain at any point during the night until we drag them away kicking and screaming. This is the perfect opportunity for us as parents to relax and forget about the tensions of the day, such as a demanding occupation, complaining children, and alarming amounts of fat and sodium in our diets.

Watching our children happily eat and play is therapeutic, but we have to navigate through that tricky gap between the time we walk in the restaurant, and the time the food magically appears on the table in front of the kids. As her preschool teachers know, Abbie doesn’t have much patience when she knows food is imminent. If food is coming, she will throw a wall-trembling tantrum until someone places it in front of her so she can decide she doesn’t want it and throw it on the ground. At home, she screams the entire time between climbing into her booster seat and having food set in front of her. You might think that walking into a noisy play area with plenty of brightly colored padded equipment to climb would be enough to distract her from the approaching meal, but nope.

We walked into the restaurant, and mommy stood in line to order while I herded the children into the play area. The boys chose their seats and happily hopped aboard to await the meal. Abbie sat next to them, realized there wasn’t any food to eat yet, and started screaming. Realizing this was my opportunity to address a behavioral issue her teachers keep raising in their notes home,* I sat across from her and encouraged patience. I soothingly assured her that mommy would bring food in a minute. Abbie frantically assured me that she couldn’t wait a minute, and screamed so loud that the family seated next to us could almost hear her over all the other screaming children in the playground. The boys continued sitting happily, knowing that screaming wouldn’t make the food come any faster. Or maybe they just knew they couldn’t get a whimper in above their sister’s wails.

As promised, mommy brought the food after a couple minutes and an eternity of waiting. The food was unremarkable. They ate half their chicken nuggets, stole each other’s chocolate milk, and tried to sneak swigs from mommy and daddy’s drinks. The toy in Abbie’s meal caught our eye. It was this doll:



That’s Nolee. She likes roller-skating, though apparently not when a stiff breeze blows that could buckle her bird legs. Mommy stared at the doll, and longed for the days when little girls only had to live up to the impossible body image of Barbie. Ever the feminist, mommy wanted to throw it away before Abbie formed any ideas about ideal proportions or clothing choices. I agreed that it was disgusting, but also noticed that Abbie seemed to like it, unlike every other doll we’ve given Abbie up to and including the properly-proportioned Dora doll. She liked moving her adjustable limbs, she played with the realistic hair-like substance flowing from her head, and she loved skating her about the restaurant. I told mommy we could throw it away if she ignored it, but I wanted to encourage pretend play as long as she liked it.

The kids spent the rest of the time playing while I finished their leftover food. When they turned antsy, we knew it was time to leave. They did so fairly happily. The boys toddled out to the car, ready for the next adventure, while Abbie and Nolee skated together.

* “Does not wait for snack well.”