“Put the thing up.”
“What thing?”
“The thing, the thing! Put it up!”
“I can’t! It’s $%&ing stuck.”
“Just – here! – put it on the cement. I’ll do it myself.”
And against the background music of the Babe Screaming Bloody Murder, Volume One, we snapped him into his car seat and promptly bid farewell to the revelers, who we secretly resented for their ability to be up until the wee hours of the morning, the bourbon in the mint juleps increasing slowly but surely inversely in proportion to the fresh mint and crushed ice. The first of the guests to stumble home would probably do so at about the same time as the Babe would wake up for the day’s first shot of boob juice at around 3:00 am.
Sitting silently in the back seat next to Master and Commander, waiting for Adoring and Wonderful Husband’s fuse to slowly fizzle out (I am the one who had the potty mouth line above, you see), we drove through the recently darkened Ottawa streets, which were coming alive at the same time as Single Me died a little bit more (yes, I may be married, but if you can get a pedicure at your leisure, without having to hire the foot’s equivalent of a wedding planner to organize the event, then you are single, plain and simple). It won’t be like this forever, I tried to console myself. Things will get back to normal someday, and we can do all the things we used to do, like sit around the closest thing you can get to a campground in the city with a guitar strumming and beer flowing (the latter of which that would only occur after the bourbon ran out). But I knew this was a lie, is a lie. Things will never be the same again, and I suppose that’s okay, because it has to be. It’s what we signed up for when the little stick turned blue that day in Flin Flon last August. But it’s hard to say good-bye to Single Me, because she was just so damn much fun. And all is not lost, I reckon. The Babe stopped howling just long enough to stop at Saturday Night Soiree Number Two where the party playing field was a bit more level with the presence of another little Master and Commander, making it easier to deal with all the squawking, and the poop.
Moral of the story? To all my girlfriends reading this, GET PREGNANT NOW. I beg of you. Don’t let Single Me go down in flames alone.
1 sweet nothing:
You know I'd do anything for a friend, but I think I might have to stop at gettin' knocked up.
The IMPORTANT THING is that you CAME to the party. That you didn't drown yourself in Mint Juleps is (actually) a plus, not a minus.
And may I just point out that you actually went to TWO parties on Saturday. The rest of us only got invited to ONE.
So while babe was necessarily attached at the hip the whole time (and he sure can scream), just think of how mature and rational and reasonable he's making you by contrast. And if that doesn't work, think of how drunk you're going to get when he's old enough to be babysat.
In fact, I'll even offer to throw a party for that special occasion.
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