Even my baby is sarcastic. No idea where he got that.

Ahhh...summer. We spent yesterday afternoon at the pool with friends until the kids were all cracked out from sugary snacks and had rumbly tummies from drinking chlorinated water. Then we debated whether or not we needed pants to go to Casa Linda, decided shirts and shoes were enough and headed straight there. Although Casa Linda is our favorite, I'm fully aware of the fact that we are probably not theirs. But they're nice to us anyway. We sat at a nice big table; I could sense the dread in everyone around us. Frankly, if I was enjoying a meal out and found myself suddenly confronted with a table of eight adults and far too many kids, all in bathing suits, I would probably ask for a to-go box. But I digress.

I was very happy and proud to give our waiter my entire family's order at once, which makes it easier to keep the bill separate. Dinner out with children isn't like a civilized dinner with like-minded adults who can just split the bill down the middle at the end. There are too many variables to do that: number of children (we had the most), age of children (the older ones eat more), behavior of children (the naughty kids' parents drink more), level of bribery to children (some of them get dessert for good behavior).

Without thinking, I ordered a quesadilla for Baby J. What's not to like? It's cheese. It's a tortilla. It's fried. And this is where one of my obnoxious parenting thoughts comes back to bite me in the a**. I've been known to wonder (sometimes aloud to my husband and a select few others) why kids can't order Mexican in a Mexican place, Mediterranean in a Mediterranean place, Japanese in a Japanese place...you get the picture. Every culture seems to have some sort of plain dish involving beans, rice and/or chicken. Must we always feed them chicken nuggets? Must we? Insert superior sigh and mild eye rolling here.

Across the table from Baby J, his friend N. had been granted chicken nuggets. Although Baby J has eaten and enjoyed the dang quesadillah in the past, he loves him some chicken nuggets. And (yeah, I know I'm getting defensive here), it's not like he eats them all the time! His big brothers are vegetarians, so he doesn't see them eating chicken nuggets. But it was love at first bite for Baby J. All we have to do is say "chicken" and his little face lights up as he chants,

"Chi-CHIN! Chi-CHIN! Chi-CHIN!"

One look at N's plate of nuggety goodness and Baby J is all,

"MY CHICHEN! MY CHICHEN!"

Who am I to argue? Lucky for me, N's parents understand the occasional necessity of appeasing a toddler, at any cost, in public. Their son also happens to be an agreeable sort of kid and happily shared his bounty with Baby J. Maybe N. just sympathized with the overwhelming desire for chicken nuggets. Anyhow, my baby proceeded to eat most of his lucky friend's food. As these things go, N. didn't seem particularly enamored of his own food anyway, so it wasn't a huge drama. Thank goodness.

When he was almost finished, Baby J calmly picked up his previously untouched quesadilla, balled it up in his fist and dropped it onto my plate, raising his little eyebrows with disdain.

"Thanks, Mom."

It was subtle, but I could hear the dripping sarcasm. He's not even two yet. How wrong is it that I felt kind of proud?

Namasté, y'all!