We were WRONGED, I tell you!

I sit here trying to catch up on my blog reading, and MyBoy and MyGirl are the height of cheap entertainment.

MyGirl is trying hard, between farts, to flip herself from back to belly. This is a feat that she has been hard at work on for a few weeks now, and many a times, we will find her in the morning, rotated around in a rather contorted and arched-back position that tells us, yes, she tried, but didn't quite make it over. Presently, she works hard, gets about three-quarters of the way over, and stops for respite breathing and hand sucking.

MyBoy is looking quite hip in his boy-striped onsie with khaki cargo shorts. It's getting a bit cooler, so I'm taking that as an excuse to put the babes in real clothes ... actual tops and bottoms. I love them just a little bit more when they are dressed cutely. Is that bad of me? Anyway, he sucks contentedly on his pacifier, and pretends to twirls his non-existent hair. This is a trait picked up from his father, who has even less hair than he, but still makes that twisty motion on his own head, and if I'm lucky, on mine.

Oh! oh! she's almost over ... hips over ... wait for it ... face smushed against blanket ... grunts and cries...and she rests. Oh well. I just want to push her over, and say "Hurrah! Look what you did!!" I see this being a problem in my future.

Do you perhaps remember an oh-so-cool dance move entitled "The sprinkler," wherein the groovy one puts one arm bent, hand on head, and the other extended out to her side? She then makes a pulsing movement, thus imitating a lawn-watering apparatus? MyBoy does this with great style ... more than his drunken-at-a-frat-party-mom ever did.

Anyway, I was reading a post over at OvaGirl's and it reminded me of a recent incident over which I am still fuming!!!

J and I are brunch kind of people. Before babes, during the making of babes, and most certainly, after babes. They are still small enough to be portable, and can sleep long enough to allow us to finish a meal, if the timing is precise. We are also church-going folks, so we usually hit the brunch spots at their most crowded, or once the crowds have gone home. We are good customers ... we are polite, we eat a lot, and we tip well.

A few weeks ago, we come home from church, change, feed the babes to ensure an optimal mood, strap on the Bjorns, and head out for a neighborhood restaurant. A restaurant that we have had both bad, and good, experiences at. And one that we have taken the babies to previously. With no problems.

We enter with delight, seeing that there are about three empty tables. After noone speaks to us for a few moments (and this is a 12-table restaurant ... not big, people), we head towards the bar. Where biaatch-hostess looks us over and says, "Yeees?" with disdain.

"Ummm, we'd like a table. To eat. Brunch, you know."

"Ohhh," she says. "Yea, we just took our last few reservations, so those tables are taken. And we're not taking any more walk-ins."

We were stunned and walked out without any of the snappy retorts that we came up with a few blocks later. First, they don't take brunch reservations. Or they certainly never did before. And who is to say that just because we have gorgeous, well-fed and well-behaved babies strapped to our chests, does that not mean that our money is not as good as everyone elses, and our bellys as growly?

Mind you, I would never take children that can talk, move on their own, or be upwardly mobile, to this restaurant. It's not that kind of place, and I totally respect that it's an "adult" kind of cafe. But come on! Sleeping infants? Without a cumbersome stroller? Give me a break.

So, we hoofed it five blocks over to a great Tex-Mex place that was more than happy to seat us in their non-smoking room, and while brunch was fine, it just wasn't the same, and we were left with a bad taste in our mouths.

I then proceeded to tell a group of girlfriends, who promised they they too, would show up at the cafe with their babies in tow, and see what kind of reception they got. Hummmph.