Meathwoman's Diary: Treading on tippy toes around the tapas table

We took a trip to Malahide a few weeks ago to celebrate my birthday. It felt like a bit of an occasion not least because we hadn’t attempted a train journey with our four-year-old in tow since he was much smaller and knew he'd love it.

Of course, there is nothing surer in life than repeatedly asking your child if they need the toilet before boarding a train, only for them to confidently say no—right up until the exact moment the train doors close. However by the time we arrived, all seemed relatively under control.

I had booked a table in a tapas restaurant, optimistically scheduling it soon after we got off the train. As we made our way from the station, I found myself willing everything to go smoothly—no sudden detours, no unexpected demands, just a straightforward walk to lunch.

But children have a sixth sense for these things.

Just as we reached the restaurant, said four year old announced that he didn’t actually want lunch at all—he wanted to find a playground what with being somewhere new. And so, before we had even crossed the threshold, the negotiations began.

I couldn’t order a margarita quickly enough. At that point, it was anyone’s guess how long we could keep this show on the road.

Thankfully, the arrival of sausage and chips worked its usual magic, and calm was restored—temporarily at least. Tapas, as it turns out, is not the ideal cuisine when dining with a small child. Dishes arriving two at a time might be perfect for a leisurely catch-up, but when you’re operating on borrowed time and dwindling patience, it feels more like a slow march.

I became acutely aware of the pace of my drink orders, fairly certain the young waiter had started to draw his own conclusions.

Not long after we’d settled in, another family arrived—a couple with two small children, both under three. The older one gave us a cheeky wave as they passed, the kind that instantly makes you smile.

A little while later, we watched as he firmly refused to hold his dad’s hand on the way to the bathroom, staging a small but determined protest of his own. A quiet reminder that this isn’t just your own child, your own chaos—this is universal.

You arrive prepared, of course. Crayons, paper, snacks, back-up snacks. Promises of ice cream afterwards. The lure of a trip to the toy shop—which inevitably ends with you leaving €20 lighter and in possession of a plastic football to add to the 17 at home.

It’s never just the meal. It’s the getting there, the negotiations along the way, and in our case, a small human doing a full supermarket sweep in Donnybrook Fair—arguably the last place that should ever happen!!

It mustn’t have been all bad—we’re going again this weekend. Wish us luck!