Eating Out

One of the more challenging aspects of my visits to my parents' house is the inevitability of eating out (when you get on a plane in St. Louis as 9 am and off at what is 2 your time, and noon in the time you're in, facing a 2 and a half hour drive home, you tend to want food at some point before the journey is over).

Last night, though, we went out to eat for fun.

And it was, though Margaret felt occasionally that no one was listening to her and made her presence known with the odd high-pitched squeal.

We used her super-special restaurant seat to lash her to the chair, and she did pretty well.

She spent a while trying to figure out what she should have to eat.

But eventually settled on the chef's special, thumb.

She also had a heck of a time trying to claw that colorful tile out of the table; it looked like a toy, but refused to cooperate.  She took this as a personal affront, and so had to come sit on my lap and try to eat my dinner.