Yesterday I was exposed to a new kind of parental nightmare I didn’t even know existed.
We were in Nikko. Mari was working, so I took the kids to the Monkey Park. All went fine — no tantrums, no chaos — and by 2 p.m. we were done. The only problem: no lunch yet. Three overtired, hungry kids. The perfect storm.
We found a soba restaurant — not expensive, but a nice, older place. Solid wooden tables. The kind of restaurant that’s probably been serving noodles since before electricity.
We sat down, and that's when I noticed my personal tormentor for the next 30 minutes…
The chairs swivel.
Bon. Bon. The sound of the chairs hitting the table, back and forth.
Bon. Bon. The elderly couple next to us pretends not to notice.
Bon. Bon. Like an amateur Blue Man Group, but with more noodles and shame.