Everyone gets fed

We had dinner last night with lovely Laura and her new husband! last night.

We went to Dino in Cleveland Park. I've only been a couple times, but I love the place. The food is delicious and they have wine specials on Sundays and the owners are so pleasant and really interesting. And they like kids.

And if you are breastfeeding, I highly recommend the place. But I will get to that.

I'd forgotten to make a reservation, so we arrived a little early and asked if they had space for all and a baby. They juggled things around and gave us a table very quickly, even though they were busy.

While sitting down, we got dirty looks from the two women dining at the table next to us. Or rather, our boy did.

Which puts you on my bad list. Don't you stinkeye my baby!

I thought about assuring them that he's a good baby, but then thought, ah, fuck it. I also wanted to taste the one woman's Brussels sprouts, but decided to order my own. Yum.

(Note to Laura: just because you call them Brussies doesn't mean you are actually more familiar with them than I.)

So Big J needed to eat NOWNOWNOW almost as soon as we sat down, and I was wondering how the whipping out of the boob would go over. And then I noticed the large triptychs we had for menus.

Perfect!

So Nick held up the unfolded menu, J glommed on, and for a good chunk of time it just looked like I was seriously absorbed in deciding what I might want for dinner.

We passed him around as we were waiting for our meal, so everyone could get a sweet baby squeeze. He just watched and watched.

The previously pilly women next door were all charmed. Such a good baby!

Ha.

And then he got tired, and when this happens, Nick is just the best person to lull him to sleep. It's like reclining on a big pillowy mattress.

And by pillowy of course I mean big firm pecs of steel and abs of titanium but still very comfortable mattress.

So we put the napkin over his head to reduce the excitement of lights! and people! and wow! I just feel I ought to explain this, in case you are all, "Lis, a napkin clearly fell on his head and you are such bad parents you don't even notice." No. We are deliberate napkin-on-the-head kinds of parents.

And yes, we understand you can't substitute a plastic bag for a napkin.

So when you have a butt hand and a pat hand, you have no more hands with which to eat your lasagna.

Which is when your adoring wife steps in.