Last night we took our small family out to the new Wingdome in West Seattle. I love wings. I can clear a whole bag of these delicious meat gems whereas my husband doesn’t care for them because there’s not enough meat there. He prefers a mighty leg of a buffalo and other kinds of animals you’d shoot on the game Oregon Trail, only to be told that you have 1,200 pounds of meat but can only bring 40 back to the wagon. (Luckily, I didn’t spend any money on stupid sets of clothes for my family. We’re farmers, not the Kardashians! Just ammo, dear General Store owner!)
I love wings. Wings are small and simple. No one should sneer if you need a roll of paper towels to finish it. Dainty! I’m not someone who complains about too much dressing on the salad or that the wine was abrasively tannic and astringent–there’s never been a gas station jug of Chablis I haven’t liked or a box of Chardonnay that made me pause because the spigot might filter out some of the earthy flavors. Just hand me a red plastic cup and if any officer asks, it’s just juice!
We had paid for our bill and were about to leave when a man who was waiting for a table leaned over to peek in on TJ. He seemed nice enough that I moved the car seat so he could take a look at my sweet baby. When people smile at TJ, I sometimes tell the baby to say hi even though that’s stupid because babies can’t talk, especially when you need them to tell the operator how many orders of Omaha steaks you’ll need. I do this like I’m granting permission for him to talk to my baby without having to post those car seat tags that say, “Please don’t look at me if you have SARS.”
The man then said to Mike, pointing to two other guys with him, “We’re from the same PEPS group [a parenting support group I had joined when I had Nathan] and this is our night out.” The man said his baby was seven months old and asked Mike how old TJ was, how he was sleeping through the night. The whole time, this guy didn’t even direct any questions to me, even though I am an expert on how many times TJ gets up because I NURSE HIM AT 2 AM. Ask Mike about his milk supply! Oh that’s right, he doesn’t breastfeed! But suddenly he’s entangled in some bromance because there’s a baby at the table! Hurray for fathers! Forget the stretch-marked wives who wear maternity pants because non-elastic waistbands chafe too much!
Once again, my gregarious husband got all the attention and no one even looked my way while I wept in the corner. No one inquiring about all the flair on my bright red TGIF-waiter suspenders, ignoring the buttons that read, “Ask me about my nipple trauma!” and “I know about diaper rash!” and “Look at me! Look at me!”