Lord, Help Me!

Yesterday we went out for dinner.  It was hubby's birthday earlier this week but he was gone and we didn't get to celebrate.  And since I didn't feel like cooking yesterday, I figured it was as good a time as any to take the family out for his "birthday" dinner.  (Love it when there's an excuse!)

We were seated on the outdoor patio and were enjoying the near-perfect day.  Next to our table was a couple also enjoying their meal al fresco.  LM kept looking over at them.  I figured he was having "dessert envy" since we were in the midst of dinner and they had already moved on to the next stage (involving whipped cream and cherries).  But I should have known his pondering wasn't as benign as that.  

Suddenly, the man got up from his table, and when he returned LM decided it was the right time to address him, to share what had been on his mind.  

LM: (yelling across to the other table) "Well, I'm glad I'm not you!  'Cause I wouldn't want to have a big...."

Me: "LM!"  (What do I say now?  Sound natural.  Sound natural....  Ignore the man now staring at us)  "Eat your dinner!"

LM: "But Mom, I wouldn't want to...."

Me: "LM!"  (Divert!  Redirect!  Pretend the man doesn't exist!)  "LM, finish your macaroni and cheese!"

LM: "But Mom...."

Me: (lowering my voice to a harsh whisper, realizing LM won't be deterred indirectly) "LM, if you're not going to say something nice, don't say it!"

LM: (lowering his voice to a whisper as well) "I'm glad I'm not that man, 'cause he has a really big belly."

Me: (sighing with relief that these words had not been spoken to the man) "LM, don't tell the man that-- it's rude.  Please, just eat!"

I thought he'd been adequately trained in this area.  But that only proves I'm an idiot.  Why, just fifteen minutes prior he'd asked our waitress what happened to her eyebrow.  (She pierced it.)  And he wondered aloud why she'd ever do such a thing.  I'm realizing right at this moment that perhaps this explains the terrible service we received throughout dinner, and then her outright refusal to get LM a small styrofoam to-go box for his dinosaur.  (Way to save the restaurant 10 cents, lady.)

Anyway, clearly we have more work to do!  And by the way, just a warning, speak to my son at your own risk.  I cannot be responsible for anything that comes out of his mouth, as I did not have access to his brain while he was forming the thought.  A good rule of thumb is: don't take it personally-- he's 6, for Pete's sake.  In the meantime, I believe I will be investing in duct-tape.