It was Christmas. He was my first child, and barely a year old. My mother-in-law revealed that our Christmas Eve dinner would be held at Ruth’s Chris. You know, the fancy steak place—knives, everywhere!—that broils its meat on the dishes they serve it on? White table cloths, crystal stemware? And it was a party of 12 so we were committed to a solid three hours of fine dining. Yep. That one. I still have PTSD.
Regardless of the setting, keeping toddlers entertained
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