Last night Derek and I took the kids to the Olive Garden to eat.

Right now my sister is seizing at just the thought of eating in that, so called, “Italian Establishment.”

I, however, have kids and count their endless salad and bread sticks as a lifesaver.

So we go to the Olive Garden.

We were having one of those meals where it seems as if your children have never eaten out before.

They seem to lose all concept of appropriate restaurant behavior.

Touching each other constantly. Clanking their silverware together. Arguing over crayon colors. Sitting on their feet. Talking loudly.

(Of course our third reason for going to the Olive Garden, behind the endless salad and bread sticks, is that everyone else is talking loudly. But let’s move on.)

We were almost through our meal, you know the point, when you just want everyone to finish eating as fast as they possibly can. You are already planning how to throw everyone in the shower in record time, limiting everyone to five minutes of reading time, turning off the lights, guiding a little one to bed, guiding her again to her bed and making some sort of threatening statement about not visiting the zoo the next day IF YOU DON”T STAY IN THIS BED.

Anyway, we were at that point.

When it happened.

To some other parent.

While spooning some pasta into my mouth, the restaurant fire alarm started to go off.

Near the exit door a mom was looking just as frazzled as us and looked mortified that her daughter had just made the alarm go off.

I could feel her pain.

Almost.

Derek and I just laughed and said to each other, “Well at least our kids have never done THAT!”