Dinner, With Opinions

Nerdy was away last night, so I thought I'd take Sasha for dinner at our local terrible diner.  We walked there from school, but Sasha was only willing to walk as far as his classmate was with us.  Once she went her separate way, he wanted me to carry him.

"You can walk. It's only 2 blocks."

"I can't walk.  My legs hurt."
"Why do your legs hurt?"
"My feet hurt."
"Okay, then sit in the stroller. That's why I have it, so you can ride in it."
"I can't sit. My tushie hurts."
"Your tushie hurts? Why?"
"Carry me, Mamu."
"You can ride in the stroller."

He proceeded to sit, complaining loudly the whole way about how his feet and tushie hurt.

"I don't want to eat at the diner."
"They have a TV on the wall.  Maybe there will be cartoons.  Or maybe it will be sports, I don't know."
"Well, if it's sports, I don't want to stay.  But if it's cartoons, then I will stay."
"Fine."

After ordering his dinner, he got served a juice in a paper coffee-to-go cup with a straw jammed through the top.

"WHAT?! That's a coffee straw! How silly."
"There's juice inside it."
"Oh."

The TV played no sports or cartoons, only a car fix-it show.  Still, I had to force him to sit at a table rather than at his chosen seat at the bar directly in front of the TV screen.  Starved for conversation with the zombie sitting across from me, I commented on the show.

"Wow. Look how greasy his hands are."
"Where?"
"Right there, that guy working on the car."
"Those aren't hands!  Those are gloves.  His hands are inside the gloves."
"Hmm. That's true."

More zombie.

"Sasha, we're here to eat food, not watch TV.  Now eat your dinner."
"If you ever. Say. That. Again. I will never eat at this restaurant again."
"Really?"
"Never."

A few more grudging bites of French toast.

Jumping out of his chair, he yells, "Mamu! I have to poop!"
"OK let's go. The bathroom is right behind you."
"Oh, wait.  It was just a fart."

Afterward, we leave the restaurant and walk 5 feet. "Mamu! I have to poop!"
"Can you wait until we get home?  The toilet seat here is the kind you don't like with the split in the middle."
"No, I want to go here."
"That's someone's house. Let's go back inside the restaurant."
[Inside, approaching the bathroom:] "Uh oh! I already pooped!"
"Oh god.  Are you serious? Let's get in the bathroom."

"Oh look, I guess I didn't."
"Awesome."

We left the restaurant again and he complained for a block about how his feet and tushie still hurt, making him unable to walk or sit in the stroller.  I ignored it until I noticed our bus coming a block away.  I said we'd better hurry up and catch our bus because that's it across the street.

"Oh! I'll race you, Mamu! C'mon, Mamu, hurry up!!"