Come for the sushi, stay for the babysitting...

I don't cook on Mondays. Oh, who am I kidding, I don't cook most nights. But especially not on Mondays because on Mondays the only thing you can find in the fridge is a container of YoBaby yogurt (possibly expired), a 1/4 carton of skim milk (also possibly expired) and a ziplock container of a questionable left over from the week before. So unless you want yobaby-chunky-milk-leftover casserole, Monday night is the mandatory restaurant night.

Tonight we went to our local sushi place. It is just down the street and for a neighborhood joint, it does all right with the raw fish. We've been a couple times and as is pretty much the case everywhere we go, Ethan charms the waitresses with coy smiles and giggles. He is shameless.

The first time we went, several waitresses crowded around Ethan, ooh'ing & ahh'ing and commenting on the obscene length of his lashes. Nothing new. Their enthusiasm was sweet and they giggled right along with him, like he was the first baby they had ever seen. We left there feeling all kinds of warm fuzzies. But nothing could compare to the reception we received there this evening.

Having not been there for at least a month, I was surprised when the waitress who seated us saw Ethan and said, "Oh, you came back!" Seriously? Wow. And that was nothing when, after we ordered our food, the waitress brought Ethan his own cup of miso soup loaded up with sticky rice and wait for it.....sat down and started feeding it to him.

Oh yeah. You read that right. Our sushi meal tonight came with it's own built-in babysitter. At first I thought it was so odd and intrusive that the waitress brought Ethan food we hadn't ordered for him. (Hello!! Have you not heard of food allergies, woman?! Oh...it's rice? and tofu? Oh. He can have that.) I thought it was even more bizarre and intrusive that the woman decided to try to spoon feed him without so much as asking permission from mom or dad first.

And then I took a deep breath and thought, "Wait. Does this mean I can actually eat my california roll in relative peace? Really? Ahhhhhhhh." Did you catch the part about how she sat down? Yeah, she pulled up a chair from the empty table next to ours and proceeded to feed Ethan his miso soup with a spoon, his tempura chicken and edamame with chopsticks. When one girl had to get up to seat another party or get an order (oh yeah, there were other people there), the other waitress came over and took her place.

I expected Ethan to completely rebel against this. Not that he didn't know the women feeding him, but that someone was trying to feed him at all. He started refusing spoon feeding months ago and if Husband or I try to tempt him by putting food up to his mouth, his response is most often to clamp his lips shut and shake his head back and forth quickly as if to say, "If you can manage to get that into my mouth, I'll eat it." It took a few seconds of convincing, but surely enough, the attention and the yummy miso got the better of him and Ethan became more than happy to oblige these ladies and eat whatever they tried to give him.

Once I got past the weird feeling of having dinner with my waitress, it was lovely. Ethan gleefully pointed to the fish in the tank next to us and flirted with his doting dinner companions, eating more than I've seen him eat in ages, and Husband & I ate our sushi happily exchanging "Are you believing this??" glances across the table. We asked one of the waitress if she had her own kids and she said no, but she wanted kids someday. I could see the mother in her so naturally coming out as she laughed at Ethan's hand, reaching for the long shallow ceramic soup spoon.

I hate to go waxing poetic, but I couldn't help but think about the idea that it takes a village to raise a child. My biggest complaint about American parenting culture is the idea that a child must be independent and self-sufficient approximately 20 minutes after leaving the birth canal in order for parents to be considered successful. God forbid you nurse until a child weans himself or pick a child up whenever he cries, lest he be condemned to be labeled a brat by the ripe old age of six months. I have read countless articles and books about when a child should be sleeping and eating on his own and shame on you if your child does not fall into those parameters. You must be coddling, or spoiling or otherwise ruining your child.

These women didn't ask me if Ethan was sleeping through the night. They didn't ask what he did and didn't eat or marvel like other waitresses have that he can use a straw like a big boy--they simply started feeding him and appreciating the "babyness" of him. They didn't sit down and feed him to give us a break; they did it because sitting with a baby and watching him explore and enjoy a meal can be it's own reward. Because there is something so precious about the time in a child's life when you can help him with something and giggle with him over something as simple as soup or the bubbles floating up to the surface in a fish tank. In everyday life and in the race to meet those parenting milestones of independence, I sometimes forget these simple pleasures.

When we got up to leave (after leaving the most lavish tip we could without seeming absurd), each wanted to hug him goodbye. It was everything in me not to hug them. For giving Husband & I a chance to exchange those quiet glances across the table, and for reminding me to cherish how sweet my little man is in these days when he will still let me, Husband, or the occassional waitress in the neighborhood restaurant lend him a hand during dinner.