Tuesday wasn't a terribly remarkable night; got out of there at forty minutes past close because we had a small push at the end, but overall it was an average night. Except.
We have three booths in our restaurant that can fit six people, seven with a chair at the end, and all three of those booths were in my station on Tuesday. After the main dinner rush, I had a table of five cocktailing women at table 3, and then at table 2 next door I got soccer moms and their crotch-spawn. The kids were making a huge mess, which is to be expected, and the moms weren't ringing them in, also to be expected. One of the mothers was also the kind of woman who notices your name and uses it--incessantly. "SlightlyCranky, can you get us some more napkins? Thank you, SC. Oh, SC, we need some more water. And can you bring one for little Brandon, SC?" etc. I hate it when people do that--coming from strangers it's condescending, and I also think it's rude. Just because I'm bringing you drink refills doesn't mean we're on a first-name basis.
Anyway, by the time they leave, there's a four-foot radius of debris around the end of the table where they had plopped the baby. There were broken cranyons and torn napkins, chunks of broccoli and fries, and got knows what else under the table. The baby had been fingerpainting with his applesauce; the little girls had been playing with the sugars; there were empty kids' cups rolling across the table, through splatters of ketchup, and mashed potatoes were smeared across the seats.. You know the type of scene.
The crowning glory, though, was actually in the next booth. There, I found a booster seat. In the booster seat was an empty fruit snack package, a torn M&Ms wrapper that had been half-assedly twisted around a melted candy bar of some kind, and a chocolate muffin with a bite missing. In the booster seat, at the clean table next to them. WTF?