On Meltdowns, Diplomas, and Fine Dining

Or, How My Wife and I Built a Lifelong Memory by Eating Steak in a Hotel Bed at 10:30 PM Without Any Silverware

We left home at 10:30 AM with a toddler, a full tank of gas, and the kind of optimism only parents on borrowed time can muster.

Twelve hours later, my wife and I were sitting cross-legged on a hotel bed, ripping chunks of wagyu beef with our bare hands like a pair of cavemen. It was the most delicious, ridiculous finale to an exhausting day - and somehow, one of the most rewarding.

Let me back up.

A few weekends ago, we packed the car and drove from our home in the Austin area to Fort Worth for my brother’s college graduation dinner. On paper, it’s a three-hour trip. With a 17-month-old, it’s a five-hour expedition full of snacks, emotional support binkies, and mild existential despair kicking in somewhere around Waco.

We made our ritual stop at Buc-ee’s - Texas’s mega-sized gas station/Walmart/unofficial state church - where our son ate lunch on our laps in the car, honked the horn with both hands, and smeared grease across every inch of the dashboard like it was his job. We filled up the tank and took a photo with Buc-ee the Beaver because, in Texas, that’s what you do.

I’m not saying meeting Buc-ee the Beaver was my son’s first religious experience, but look at that picture and tell me it doesn’t look like Michaelangelo’s The Creation of Adam.

We made it to the hotel around 4:00 PM. Tired but upright. We chatted with family who were also staying there and tried to keep our son in a decent mood despite his jacked up nap schedule. Dinner wasn’t until 7:00 - aka bedtime for a toddler. But this was a special occasion, and we weren’t going to miss it.

At first, things looked promising. Our son caught a second wind and worked the room like a pint-sized politician - playing with his cousin, high-fiving everyone in sight, and soaking up attention from every grandparent and great-grandparent in the room.

But as the saying goes, the meltdown happened slowly, and then all at once.

Seriously, look at this, and tell me you don’t see the similarity.

He didn’t want to sit. Then he really didn’t want to sit. He clung to us, needing to be held but rejecting all comfort. We passed him back and forth like a tired, emotional potato. By 8:45, it was clear the dam was about to break. Our son couldn’t decide whether to sleep or scream, so he tried both. The speeches had just ended, and the entrees hadn’t arrived. We slipped out to the courtyard hoping fresh air would help.

It didn’t.

So we made the call: we were out. No steak was worth a toddler going full Chernobyl. We hugged family, offered congratulations to my brother, and asked the waiter if anything could be packed up. Honestly, I didn’t expect much - maybe a couple sides and a soggy steak in a takeout box.

I’m pretty sure my grandma helped wrangle everything. And she must’ve worked some magic, because when we got back to the hotel and opened the mystery takeout bag, it felt like a prize chest. Not just our entrées, but sides, dessert, and - miraculously - the communal wagyu beef platter meant for the whole table.

That’s when we realized: no silverware.

Lo, the Beaver giveth and the Beaver taketh away.

Too tired to go back to the lobby, too hungry to wait, we did what any couple running on fumes and adrenaline would do: we got in bed and ate with our hands. We dipped beef into mashed potatoes, licked cheesecake off our fingers, and stifled giggles like kids at a sleepover as our son slept a few feet away. The jokes got dumber by the minute, eventually peaking with the phrase “bed meat,” which we will never un-hear. And now, neither will you.

It had been a long, messy, emotionally draining day. The kind where everything requires just a little more energy than you have. But somehow, this chaotic little feast in bed became the highlight. Not because it was fancy or Instagram-worthy, but because we made it through together.

And I want to be clear: we were lucky. Having a “rough day” that ends with steak is, by almost any standard, a luxury. But what made that moment matter wasn’t the food - it was what it stood for. That even in the middle of exhaustion, frustration, and unmet expectations, we found joy in each other. Not despite the chaos, but because we let ourselves laugh through it.

There were plenty of moments where things could’ve gone sideways between us. We were both tired. Both hungry. Both carrying a cranky kid through a crowded restaurant in what was supposed to be a celebration. It would’ve been easy to snap, to get short, to let the stress win.

But we didn’t. We stayed kind. We stayed patient. We stayed on the same team.

And that, more than anything, is what made the food taste better. When you’re with the right person, even the craziest days can end with laughter and full bellies.

So, is there a lesson here? Well, for starters: always keep a spork on hand.

And for any would-be dads still looking for their person, here’s my advice: find someone you can eat cold steak with in a hotel bed, forkless, at the end of a long day. Someone who doesn’t flinch when plans fall apart. Who doesn’t need perfect circumstances to have a good time. Who meets fatigue with humor and frustration with grace.

And for those already deep in the trenches of parenting, marriage, or just everyday life - remember that some of your favorite memories won’t come from the smooth days. Life with a toddler isn’t glamorous. But with the right partner, it becomes its own kind of magic.

Not because things went according to plan. But because you got through it - together.

Even when you’re eating bed meat with your hands at 10:30 PM.