With 3 boys under 5, there’s never a dull moment. Certainly never a quiet one… Buggy Blogger mum to J (4), B (3) and S (1) frets about going public on table manners.

I've been thoroughly mother's day-ed. I've got three glittery, scribbly masterpieces on the mantelpiece and a multicoloured bead necklace (bracelet?) that B strung together with his own sticky hands. I enjoyed a series of sloppy 'my love you mummy' kisses first thing in the morning, and my slippers were very sweetly jammed onto the wrong feet in a 'just relax and take it easy' gesture.

And last but certainly not least, we were all treated out to a Sunday pub lunch with the grandparents – though I did wonder whether inflicting our offspring on a roomful of unsuspecting diners would feel more like a form of torture than a treat. Would it be a pleasure or a public shaming session exposing my offspring's erratic table manners for all to see?

Because mealtimes with this lot can often feel like feeding time at the zoo. S spits out half-chewed food, hammers his beaker on the table, chucks his food-caked spoon on the floor, and generally grabs and smashes anything within arm's reach. He houdinis out of his highchair. He screeches like a banshee. And he loves playing peekaboo with the once-white kitchen curtains that are now alarming shades of lentil-curry yellow and dried-ketchup brown.

Then there's B who's reluctant to use his utensils except to sloppily stir his drink or poke a neighbouring brother. He strops unreservedly when the food doesn't match his exacting standards or if J has the plate / cup / food / drink which he believes is rightfully his. And if there's an excuse to leave the table – retrieving stray spoons, swapping seats, following up on a mysterious rhinoceros sighting – he'll act on it.

Luckily mealtimes haven't degenerated into complete chaos, however, as J at least has managed to master the rudiments. He generally undertakes to feed himself, remains at table for the duration and is also very good at politely asking to leave it. Eventually. Because though he's got what to do sussed, he's not yet got the hang of jolly well getting on with it. I've never known anyone eat so slowly. Perhaps that's why he consistently mixes up the names of mealtimes – he genuinely thinks it is still lunchtime when he’s still stolidly chomping through his midday sandwiches as dinnertime approaches.

So anyway, with a slow-coach, a drama queen and an escape artist on board, you can understand my nerves at test-driving our table manners out in public. And things got off to a wobbly start when we discovered a lack of high chair to pinion S into. The bar had also run out of apple juice and there was only … horrors … orange juice to be had. It also turned out to be a set Sunday roast menu, so no 'keep quiet' chips bribe for the boys either.

And then S discovered the olde worlde paraphernalia scattered artfully around, much of it perilously within reach. Before we knew it, he was gleefully bashing the horse brasses about. He'd lobbed the 'Titanic' chalk board menu onto the floor and the corn dollies were seconds away from a damp and chewy end.

Rescue (for us and the dollies) came in the form of some hastily procured Sunday bar nibbles – what boy could fail to be distracted by a handful of cheese cubes and ready-salted crisps? Swiftly followed by … guaranteed crowd-pleasers … roast potatoes swimming in gravy, all chased down with a large helping of apple pie and ice-cream. Enough to keep even the most fidgety of nippers quiet.

And what of their table manners all this time? Well, I'm pleased to say our noise, though considerable, was drowned out by the hubbub of the bar. Three little bottoms stayed super-glued(ish) to their seats and none of us suffered any antiquity-related head injuries courtesy of the small guy. Perhaps all that red wine I knocked back clouded my judgement, but on balance I'd say they all managed really rather well.

So in the end a wonderful mother's day lunch was had, everyone … even wine-soaked moi … behaved impeccably and if I didn't know any better I'd say the boys came across as old hand, regular pub-goers.
Chips (roast potatoes?) off the old block then.

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