When our daughter was very young—around ten months—she had, in her mind, mastered walking.
She hadn’t.
She could, however, bumble around like a particularly drunk ball bearing, careening from one piece of furniture to another. In her opinion, this made her fully qualified to explore any venue we entered independently.
In ours, it made her a rather predictable, if stressful, liability.
We would look at other families’ tables, where babies, toddlers and even small children could be placed in front of toys or screens and would dutifully sit like rather large upright potatoes until food appeared. Meanwhile, the adults chatted, with only the occasional admonishment not to eat the carpet or chew a shoelace.
Our daughter NEVER stayed still.
We dreaded going out. In fact, we did everything possible to avoid it. There was only one café we felt safe visiting for breakfast, largely because we had been regulars there long before I was even pregnant.
When we first took our daughter in, at three weeks old, the waitress looked at her, squealed, promptly scooped her out of the pram and disappeared with her.
We were left sitting at our table, sleep-deprived and considering whether our child had been taken to meet the cook or simply kidnapped.
When it became apparent that she had allergies to milk and soya, the café started stocking various milk substitutes for me while I was breastfeeding. They looked after us, and it became the only place where we felt comfortable taking her.
So, naturally, when she started walking and we found ourselves chasing her around like demented chickens after a particularly stubborn worm, we took her there.
The staff knew us. The locals knew us. More importantly, they rather liked her and didn’t take offence when she appeared under their tables. They would simply scoop her out and hand her back without breaking conversation.
And woe betide any non-local who complained about the feral baby invading their space. Anyone who looked at her sternly or huffed at us could expect cold food and a long wait.
I miss that café.
Still, by the time she was ten months old, it was obvious that we needed a system for going out and about.
Most of the time, we settled on a small trike with a parent steering handle. She preferred it to the buggy because she had better visibility. My husband preferred it because he could steer it properly. I preferred it because there was a better-than-even chance she would stay in the bloody thing.
In places where the trike was unsuitable, we resorted to reins.
Reins are, I believe, the socially acceptable way of putting your small, overactive offspring on a harness and lead. You still have to teach them not to pull, discourage them from running and occasionally haul them upright to stop them falling on their face.
But because the harness has a pretty unicorn or teddy bear on it, nobody seems particularly outraged.
My husband suggested a shock collar more than once.
I assumed he was joking. For the sake of marital harmony, I chose not to investigate.
All this came back to me recently when my husband and I went out for breakfast at a lovely farm café that allows dogs.
Apparently, we have learnt something from our time with our daughter, because we now keep the dog on a short lead under the table so he can’t get too far.
Also, anyone who thinks he’s cute can’t simply grab him and take him out the back to meet the cook.
So the moral of the story is this: if you take small, cute things out in public, keep them on a tether.
