Our friends/Sean's co-workers Meike and Ben took pity on Evan and I being alone here for the week while Sean was back in the states and invited us out to dinner. We went to one of the few kid-friendly places in town. A nice italian place. They have crayons, kids menus, and changing tables (surprisingly, I have only found changing tables in a handful of places and not even all kid-friendly places have them).
It was getting a little late for Evan since he didn't nap today and we had had a playdate in the afternoon. He has been on a Cheerio/milk/fruit bar diet lately refusing even Mac and Cheese and not even finishing his pancakes so I was doubtful that he would eat any of their standard kid pasta fare. He'd just finished a cup of Cheerios so when he pointed to the banana split on the menu, I said, "Okay!" (If that would keep him quiet and from escaping from the tables: this is a restaurant without booths to trap the children in).
He managed to stay pretty content until we got the banana split. Then he was excited! There were sauces on the side to dip his fork into. In fact, he enjoyed taking my fork, dipping it, and giving it back to me in between my bites of calzone. (So much so I got another fork to supplement while he was dipping mine.) Everything was going fine, truly messy with chocolate sauce dripping on the table and down his shirt, but he was quiet and content.
Then, for some reason he started shaking the banana he had on his fork. A banana covered in lumps of ice cream. I was just thinking I might have to intervene when a rather large glob of ice cream flies into the air and lands squarely on top of his head. Luckily, he was the only victim of the flying ice cream. He then puts his hand on top of his head and starts smearing it about. I am laughing so hard (along with everyone else at the table, fortunately) that I'm having a hard time concentrating enough to wipe it off his head.
Soon after that he decided he was done, whether the rest of the table was or not. So, after covering my leg with chocolate from his shirt we went to the bathroom to clean up. (Very difficult in a country with no paper towels.) I would wash his hands and he kept wiping them on his shirt to dry them and they would end up covered in chocolate again. I finally carried him like a wet dog to the table telling him the whole time, "Don't touch your shirt, don't touch your shirt..." We then took off his shirt and threw on his sweatshirt (the beauty of being in a country that requires layering.) We got some strange looks from the other diners but nothing more.
The sugar kicked in and he started to run out of the restaurant. We all made a rushed exit and Evan jogged most of the way home until he tripped and fell flat on his face, then I got to carry him up the hill, crying.
It just took a bath after that and he was out for the night.
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