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When my first child was born, I lived in New York City. My husband and I were accustomed to eating breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and dessert in restaurants far more often than our own kitchen. We got a rude awakening the first time we tried to take our adorable infant to my favorite Italian restaurant. Think red-checked tablecloths, candles, and olive oil imported from Tivoli. I was on first-name terms with both the ricotta ala rigatoni and the matred.