Kintropy In Action

Before we left the house, I reminded both Hannah and Gabriel, "We're going to a nice restaurant.  Best behavior, please."  I picked up Hannah.  "And, Hannah, no tantrums."

Hannah avoided looking me in the eye.

"Hannah.  Hannah.  You need to behave, okay?"

By this time, I was holding Hannah; she snuggled into my shoulder.  I took that as acceptance.

Quickly, we packed up the car and headed into Portland.  Janette's dad, Pop-Pop, wanted to meet us and have dinner before his flight back to Florida.  We arranged to meet at our favorite spot, Jake's Grill.  This was a special place for Janette and me.  It was our date place.  Our we-get-some-time-to-ourselves place.  Now, we were about to share this place with our kids.

A few miles from the house, traffic ground to a halt on the 26.  Hannah shifted in her seat.  A few miles later, she started to cry.  Closer to the city, she started to scream.

By the time we arrived at Jake's, Hannah was doing the potty-NOW dance.  Janette took her back, and Gabriel and I joined Pop-Pop at the table.  We all chatted and caught up.  Janette and Hannah rejoined us about fifteen minutes later.

As far as setting the tone, I thought we were in for another difficult dinner.  Neither of our kids is particularly keen on sitting still, particularly for more than fifteen minutes at a time.  Gabriel understood we were going someplace special.  To Hannah, though, we were in another restaurant (not her strength), sitting still (not preferred), eating (she'll sample by mouth, but eat primarily through her g-tube while we eat).

Technology to the rescue!  After everyone had talked for a bit, Janette handed out the electronic babysitters.  Gabriel's face glowed in Nintendo DS blue.  Hannah clapped for the small, portable DVD player, our video magic jukebox, perched on the table in front of her.  Janette, Pop-Pop, and I ordered for us and the kids and, in between feeding Hannah and checking in on the kids, we got to have some adult conversation when the ambient din allowed.

Hannah and Gabriel showed fantastic patience (particularly given that Hannah was still smarting from the bathroom trip - not easy to go with low muscle tone).  We actually made it through the whole meal without a tantrum.  I know.  I know.  The electronic babysitters may be tacky, but I'll bet our adjacent diners appreciated this tactic better than the alternative.

After I finished up, I took Gabriel, then Hannah and Gabriel for a walk through the connecting hallway to the grand old Governor Hotel lobby.  Hannah sat perched near my shoulder, eyes-wide as she examined the lobby's ornate ceiling.  Gabriel seemed to love the whole restaurant with the hidden hotel lobby up-the-stairs-and-hidden-in-the-back concept.

Interestingly, the hotel was hosting a Providence Child Development Center dinner tonight, too.  I remarked to a woman managing the coat room that we probably knew a person or two in there.  Within a few minutes, I heard, "Hannah?"

A member of Hannah's IFSP team from last year stopped us and reintroduced herself.  She would have been Hannah's teacher if Hannah had gone into a "self-contained" preschool (only kids that experience disabilities) rather than Gabriel's old preschool.  Although she didn't end up being Hannah's teacher, both Janette and I had appreciated the attention and interest she had given Hannah during the IFSP.

We chatted.  I introduced Gabriel, and he proudly announced that he was now six, holding up the right number of fingers (good job, buddy!).  Hannah's almost-teacher introduced me to her mother.  In the end, Hannah got tons of attention (which she soaked up) and a three singer, two part harmony "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Janette rang my cell phone, and we said our good-byes.  Heading back toward the stairs, I smirked.  Hannah must think the world is a musical.  People sing to her everywhere, and everyone knows her name!  I wonder how all this looks and feels to Gabriel sometimes, but he seems willing to play a supporting role in Hannah's sometimes-rock-star life for now.

-- Dad