My stress spikes in fine restaurants. In Mastro’s last night Nathanael (7) was all over the place. Up. Down. Sitting. Standing. He was tired. And tiring. He drummed on the table, put his head down. He pulled his shirt over his head then over the back of his chair. And more.

Let me focus on my behavior: I’m trying to engage adults, monitor children, exude patience, and LOOK good. Classic triangle. I talk quietly. I’m hearing myself use a harsh, desperate whisper. I feel HIS behavior all over MY body. I march him out and tell him there’ll be no candy or snow cones (he LOVES both) for the next few days unless he behaves like the other 200 people in the restaurant. He gives me a military “Yes, Daddy” and he’s a changed child – for three minutes!

Dessert arrives. My saner self talks: “You should know better,” says a less desperate internal whisper. “It’s you, not your friends, who choose the context – time, place, activity – for your children. This is not a good context for Nate?” “I know, I know.” I reply, “My choices set the stage for his.”

I blew it. It’s fine place. Nathanael should wait a decade or two before returning – unless we’ve both been banned forever.