When my husband mentioned wanting to go to Olive Garden for his birthday dinner, I should have known we were in for an adventure. Not because Olive Garden isn’t great – those breadsticks are basically edible gold – but because taking five children anywhere that isn’t Chick Fil A on Kid’s Night is like voluntarily signing up for a social experiment in chaos theory.
The planning phase alone should have been our first red flag. “Let’s make a reservation,” I suggested, optimistically assuming we could coordinate five small humans to arrive somewhere at a predetermined time. My husband laughed. Not with me, but at me. He knows our track record.
Like a lot of big families with a baby, we don’t go out to a eat a ton (I mean there’s the aforementioned Chick Fil A kids night, free kids meals for good grades, and of course pizza) but not a lot of sit-down restaurants) — for lots of reasons. It’s expensive, it’s anxiety-producing, it’s messy, it’s unpredictable with a baby who feeds on demand– you name it! So when we told our kids we were going out to eat, they were super excited– like they’ve been deprived of dining out their entire lives. The three oldest took their time “getting ready,” which entailed dressing “preppy” and having my oldest daughter fix their hair and makeup. My three year old insisted on wearing one of her many dinosaur outifts. Baby girl spit up all over herself and me right before leaving, so after a quick wardrobe change for both of us we were out the door and on our way. And still with all of this, we still managed to roll into the parking lot with a minute to spare. I know– impressive!!
As we walked into Olive Garden, we got the looks that we normally do when we walk into sit down restaurants– a mix of wariness, maybe a little bit of fear, and a dollop of amusement. The host took one look at our crew and I swear I could see him mentally calculating how much extra he’d need to tip the cleaning crew that night. He seated us in what I can only assume was the restaurant’s designated “family destruction zone” – a corner table strategically located far from other diners who actually wanted to enjoy their meals in peace. Smart, really, when you think about it.
The moment we sat down, our server approached with the kind of forced smile that said, “I’ve seen this before, and I will survive this.” Bless her heart. She immediately brought us four baskets of breadsticks and two bowls of salad, apparently understanding that carbs and OG salad dressing were our only hope of maintaining any semblance of order.
After checking out the menu, everyone decided what they wanted to eat. One kids cheese pizza, one kids pepperoni pizza, two chicken alfredos and a partridge in a pear tree. Drinks? Dr Pepper, of course — still regretting that one! “But mommyyyyyy….. it’s daddy’s birthdayyyyy….. It’s a special occasion … we get soda on special occasions only!” What can I say– sometimes I’m a sucker. Also, choose your battles.
Five minutes after the drinks arrived, two Dr. Peppers had been spilled on the table, one was in a kid’s stomach, and one lone drink had survived. Almost all of the breadsticks were gone, and the natives were getting restless. Meanwhile, my husband sat there grinning like this was exactly how he’d envisioned spending his birthday. Either he’s achieved some zen-like state of parental acceptance, or the pre-dinner chaos had broken something fundamental in his brain.
The food arrived with surprising speed – clearly our server wanted us fed and out as quickly as possible. It was during dinner that my three year old yelled, very loudly– because it turns out she only has one volume in a restaurant, “my legs aren’t like your legs momma! They hairy like daddy’s!!” My older three kept saying “mom you have to find the recipe for ________– insert whatever they were eating at the time here– on Pinterest! You know — those knock off recipes you always find!” and “this fettucine is so much better than what you make!” Thanks kids. There were a hundred Gerber puffs on the floor from the baby, two forks and two butter knives under my three year old’s chair, and enough pieces of breadstick, salad and pizza to feed another kid or two.
But here’s the thing about kids in restaurants: just when you think you’re about to spontaneously combust from embarrassment, they do something that makes your heart melt. Our oldest helped cut up food for a younger sibling without being asked. The middle one shared their favorite part of their meal with dad because “it’s his birthday and he should have the best bites.” The middles sang a completely off-key but absolutely precious version of “Happy Birthday” that had neighboring tables smiling instead of glaring.
Our server, who deserved a medal of honor, brought out a complimentary dessert with a candle, and several of the servers sang happy birthday (of course we all joined in, because you can’t sing happy birthday too many times in the middle of a restaurant). As my husband made his birthday wish while surrounded by our beautifully messy a family, I realized something: this chaos isn’t a bug in our family system – it’s a feature.
And honestly? The entire dining experience went better than I was initially anticipating, and that’s not nothing. Sure, we left a tip that was probably larger than our mortgage payment (guilt is expensive), and yes, I’m pretty sure we single-handedly depleted their breadstick reserves for the evening. But we also created one of those memories that we’ll laugh about for years to come.
Next year though? We’ll probably stick with pizza delivery and call it a day. Some lessons in parenting come with unlimited breadsticks attached.
Happy birthday, honey. Thanks for being the kind of dad who thinks dinner in a restaurant with five kids sounds like a party instead of a punishment. You’re either the best husband ever, or completely insane. Maybe both.
Now, who wants to bet how long before one our kids asks when we can go back?
