Children in Bars or how we got thrown out of a bar

And a hearty Virginia hello to you all! We have safely landed in Arlington and have slowly settled in our fabulous corporate housing. Ok, I lied about the fabulosity of it all. It is not bad. It is, however, all white and that is starting to grate on me just a tad—the walls are white, the towels are white, the bed linen is white, the lamps, the tiles, the bathrooms, the floors—yup, all white. That much white gets depressing after a while. Thankfully, Son has already spread all of his cars all over the place (and tossed some out of the terrace for good measure), I have my innumerable boxes and little boxes and tiny little boxes all over the bedrooms and the walk-in (!!) closets, and the Diplomat has continued to be his (dubisouly) wonderful messy self, so the place is starting to look more like a human habitat and less like a hospital bathroom.
Yesterday, the Diplomat had his first day at the Foreign Service Institute and Son –his first day at the FSI daycare. Both had excellent time. OK, I lied again. The Diplomat spent the day from one bureaucratic line into another getting his ID and whatnot fabulous FS paraphernalia. Son spent the day running all over the daycare facility yelling happily from the top of his lungs and flirting with everything female dressed in pink. The daycare is huge, brand new, bright and wonderful. I am in love with it.
Today, the Diplomat took us to a happy hour in Continental, a local bar to hang out with his fancy new friends, the Fledgling Diplomats. Upon entering the bar, I was apprehended by a stern, pumped-up guy who told me severely, “M’am, children are NOT allowed here but since he is so little, I will allow it!” I said, “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir” with as much gravity as I could muster. Then I promised him that Son won’t be doing any drinking. Two minutes later the stern guardian of the bar came to me to remind me “to watch the child,” to which I, perhaps somewhat tersely, retorted that I AM in fact watching the child. Mercifully, the Diplomat then approached with two beers. A sip later, the child police embodied by the stern doorman came back to me to inform me succinctly, “He has to go!” and then murmured something about his ass being chewed by management but I must say, his ass seemed fairly healthy to me. Trying to be sarcastic, I haughtily said to Son, “You must go!” I am fairly certain that my refined sense of humor was lost on this pillar of the bar security. We left. Which brings me to my often-debated question—should we bring toddlers in bars? How about they make bars with playgrounds?? Ah? Not a bad idea, no?? I thought so. I will propose it to the Continental.