But before I get into our Panera and Barnes and Noble adventure, let me clear something up first. Waddle is sort of a misleading term. At the Bear's last checkup, our doctor said she walks like Frankenstein: feet dragging on the floor, legs always rigidly straight, arms projected outward. Actually, she sort of looks like someone walking in flippers. But while Frankenstein is certainly an apt comparison for the Bear's walking style, I offer another one. The Bear, just learning the art of two-legged mobility, walks like a drunk old man: she never---never--walks in a straight line, she'll usually grab onto whatever is within reach to keep her balance, including my leg hair or one of the dogs' ears, it takes her roughly 35 minutes to walk the 100 hundred feet from the front door to the back door of our house (we live in a twin, so all the rooms are in a line), and she falls to the ground every three feet in a heap of glory devoid of any sense of gravity or attempt to brace her fall. It's a good thing her butt is heavily padded by an expensive (read: organic) diaper.
Any way, back to the
I rolled up with a car seat (with a baby in it...cool out, DYFS) and a blue elephant backpack full of the usual paraphernalia for an hour-long lunch at Panera: five diapers, two packs of wipes, a change of clothes, and eight toys. You know, the usual. I casually strolled up to order food, averting the stares of some people that I could just sense implied something in between "Did he steal that baby?" and "Awww, that's cute...a male nanny. A manny!" While I'm joking (sort of), I could definitely tell that a man in his young thirties bringing a baby to a restaurant in the middle of the work week in the middle of the work day was not something these people had seen very often before. I'm sure some people wondered why I wasn't at work and some wondered if something was amiss that I was the one out with the kid instead of her mother. I'd be willing to bet that no one considered the nature of the situation, that I'm a teacher with the summer off and have the opportunity to hang out with my daughter for three months. Truthfully, I did feel a little weird. But I also felt proud. Let these people stare; I'm not embarrassed to have my daughter out to lunch with me. I get to do something most dads don't get to do and I'm not going to be self-conscious about that. So, I looked down at my daughter in her car seat to give her some sage advice about not caring what other people think. She was asleep. Only one year old and she's already not listening to me.
I quickly ordered food (chipotle chicken sandwich for me, turkey BLT for the Bear) and walked over to the area where you pick up your food. For anyone who has ever been to Panera, you know what I'm talking about. It's the area where people will literally knock over old people to get to their soup and sandwich combo. No joke, I actually saw this once. After a few minutes, my two sandwiches were ready. And that's when I realized I'd made a huge mistake.
How do you carry two plates full of food, a drink, an elephant backpack, and a baby in a carseat?
The answer is you can't. At least not gracefully.
So, I improvised. I put both sandwiches on one plate, balanced the drink (full, by the way) on the two square inches of available space remaining on the plate, threw the elephant backpack around my neck, and picked up the baby (who was still sleeping soundly) in her car seat.
As I searched and walked the crowded restaurant for an empty table, most people averted their eyes so as not to make contact with the crazy man juggling food, an elephant and a baby. I think some people offered to help me, but I couldn't hear them over my embarrassment.
My frantic search for a table continued. Why was no one leaving? Sir, how long does it take to finish a panini? Lady, do you need to eat the soup and the bread bowl it came in? In my right arm, the weight of the Bear in her car seat grew increasingly more heavy with each passing second. I'm almost positive she secretly puts weights in her diaper just to make my life more difficult. In my left hand, I tried to balance the food/drink platter, almost spilling it several times. And around my neck, I swear someone must've swapped out the Bear's wipes for bricks, because that elephant backpack had a pretty serious chokehold on me.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity (it was probably like two minutes, tops), three Panera employees came up to me and insisted they help. One grabbed my plate, one grabbed my drink, and one grabbed the backpack. I'm not sure if they were just being helpful or were embarrassed for me, but, regardless, I greatly appreciate their help. Shout out to those guys, if they ever read this. The three Good Samaritans showed me to a table in the corner, away from most people and their discerning eyes, and asked if I needed anything. I said I was all set and thanked them graciously for their help. As for the Bear and how she handled my walk of shame through the firestorm of judgement that is the seating area at Panera? She was asleep the whole time. The whole damn time. Here's proof:
I ate my sandwich very quickly, as any parent knows the art and importance of speed eating. As I was taking my last bite, the Bear awoke from her slumber. I picked her up quickly before any screams of confusion could erupt from her tiny, yet powerful lungs. She spent about ten minutes assessing her surroundings and finally started to eat her turkey BLT. Well, just the LT part. I took care of the B.
After the Bear finished (I knew she was finished when I tried to feed her a piece of turkey and she promptly batted it out of my hand and grunted), we strolled across the parking lot to the Barnes and Noble. As you're probably sick of reading by this point, I'll let pictures tell that story (with a few words, of course):
"I'm confused, can I touch these?"
Pretty sure Harry Potter is above your reading level, Bear.
She goes right to Dork Diaries...must be books about dad.
"Eh, I think I'll destroy this nicely organized stack of toys."
The Bear, in her natural habitat: observing her reign of destruction, plotting her next move.
"I am Toddler-zilla!!!"
"Well, what do we have here? Cute plush toys? No. Stuffed animals? Wrong. Things to put in my mouth? Yup."
"Now, listen here dog. I am the Bear and I am your new master."
"Let this serve as a lesson to you, Minnie Mouse. I'm in charge around here. Now turn the other way and nobody gets hurt."
"What are you all staring at? These are my new minions/best friends. And I'm taking them with me."
"We're the three best friends that anybody could haaaaaaaaave."
I'm pretty sure the terrified dog on the shelf is thinking, 'I've got to treat her like a T-Rex...if I remain absolutely still, maybe she won't see me...'
Thanks for checking in!
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