Mommy’s not sure how her pretty little house turned into a maximum security prison overnight. Everywhere she turns, Mommy is intercepted by bars, latches or clamps. Even the toilet seat is equipped with an industrial-grade lock. Mommy can’t get into anything these days without breaking a nail, seeking help from an instructional video on YouTube, or losing her shit. And the price tag for her CSI: Sesame Street home makeover? A $700 Visa bill and an entire weekend devoted to installation. Mommy thought nothing could be more excruciating than the hours she spent sifting through hundreds of Benji Moore paint chips and interior design blogs to land on the perfect off-white hue for every wall and piece of trim in the house. Until she had to watch Daddy drill unsightly holes into half of the fruits of her labour to install baby gates that you’ll conquer in approximately three days. Not so long ago, Mommy would have thought that any parent who would go to such extreme precautionary measures to protect their child must be suffering from a severe paranoia disorder. Then she turned her back on you for 30 seconds last week and caught you halfway up the staircase about to empty the contents of her change purse into your mouth. Safety 1st ™ 1. Mommy 0.
DRINK: Alabama Slammer. 1 oz Southern Comfort liqueur, 1 oz Amaretto liqueur, 1 dash grenadine syrup, 4 oz orange juice. In a glass of ice, combine Southern Comfort, Amaretto and grenadine. Fill with orange juice and stir. Dream about life on the outside.
Nothing used to make Mommy feel more relaxed than a bath. Bubbles, lavender scented candles and some Sade were all she needed to unwind. Now, bath time gives Mommy several mini heart attacks (fear of hypothermia / drowning / soap blindness) and it’s worse now that you keep trying to stand (fear of splitting head open on Moen faucet). Mommy is not sure who is more soaking after tub time: you or her. Then the other day you “dropped some kids off at the pool”. Weird face + making your own bubbles = suddenly you’re bathing in feces. Mommy briefly felt triumphant after she successfully held you squirming and slippery while using the massage feature on the hand wand to beat last night’s mushy peas down the drain. Then you peed on her.
DRINK: Liquid Drano. 1 oz light rum, 1 oz blueberry schnapps, 3 oz blue Gatorade. Serve on the rocks in a highball glass with frozen blueberries for garnish. Enjoy on a non-slip surface.
Mommy had barely issued your birth announcement when people started asking her when she was going to give you a little brother or sister. And now that your first birthday has come and gone, Mommy can’t go a day without being confronted with the question. It comes from all directions: in-laws, colleagues, some random middle-aged guy in the Starbucks line, and it’s almost always accompanied by unsolicited advice about the importance of perfectly timing the age difference between siblings (according to the latest perspective on the subject from a totally credible news source like msn.com or Tori Spelling’s twitter feed.) But the question most often comes from other new Mommies, disguised as actual interest in Mommy’s life, but truly a cry for help along the lines of: “If I’m going down this miserable road again, this time with toddler in tow, you better the hell be coming along with me!” And even worse than the questions are the prying eyes, scanning Mommy’s mid-section for clues (*Sigh* Mommy only wishes that was a baby
bump…) and monitoring her wine consumption at social events, forcing her to make a big production of pouring herself a third glass of Cabernet which then haunts her the next morning when you wake up at 5 a.m.
DRINK: One-hit wonder. A shot of vodka over ice, consumed while listening to the sweet sounds of Deee-lite, Take That or Vanilla Ice. Whoever said “the more, the merrier” never endured 9 months of pregnancy.
Mommy was already a fringe member of the neighbourhood Mommy groups, given her lacklustre baking skills and shameful habit of dressing you in sleepers at all hours of the day (well beyond the three-month grace period.) But now you’ve really sealed Mommy’s social fate as a Mommy pariah with your newfound hair-pulling fixation, depriving Mommy from hereon in of one of her only opportunities for adult conversation when Daddy’s at work (even if said conversation involves exchanging explosive poo stories and Raffi song recommendations.) Unfortunately Mommy’s desperate cries of “Gentle! Gentle!” only make you pull your victim in closer, until Mommy is forced to pry you away, beg for forgiveness, and then disappear with you into the night, her head bowed in shame. Mommy thought hairless babies were safe from your iron fist, but apparently you don’t distinguish between a handful of hair and scalp. Even more upsetting than the trauma you’re inflicting on your former playmates is Mommy’s realization that, for the rest of her life, any bad behavior you may engage in will always reflect on her and something she should/shouldn’t have done / said / taught / discouraged / encouraged / practiced / read / fed you.
DRINK: The Lonely Island. Get in touch with your inner Tom Hanks with this Castaway-inspired mocktail. 2 oz coconut milk, 2 oz fresh lime juice, sparkling water. Shake coconut milk and lime juice together and pour over ice into a chilled tall glass. Fill with sparkling water, stir, and garnish with a mint sprig. If you’re feeling lonely these days, befriend a volleyball. “Wilsonnnnnnnnn!”
If you can sleep in, spend $43 on a lemon sage ravioli, fly last minute to Croatia, get your eyebrows waxed, have nothing in your fridge but Stella Artois and mustard, take yoga-muay thai fusion Wednesdays at 6pm, say things like “this season of Dexter was staid and uninspired and couldn’t live up to neoclassical themes woven into the existential tapestry of Game of Thrones” or own nice things then you are single. Single people complain about being single all the time. Mommy nods politely as they whine about mediocre service, eHarmony or the end of a Tribeca Film Festival selection, but all the while Mommy is fantasizing of wearing their skin to become them, just like in Silence of the Lambs. Single people don’t pee when they sneeze. They really don’t know how good they have it. This of course does not apply to single parents, who are heroes and should be given keys to the city’s wine cellar immediately.
DRINK: The Cosmompolitan. The traditional Cosmo may be the single girl’s go to, but this delicious tipple is just for Mommy. Shot of Absolute Mandarin vodka, shot of Absolute Cherry vodka, half shot of Cointreau, splash of lime juice, splash of pomegranate juice. Shake over ice, strain and serve.
Mommy can’t believe she’s going to pay a teenager $40 to sit in her living room for three hours (texting her boyfriend and eating Mommy’s cappuccino frozen yogurt directly from the tub) while you lie sleeping in your crib upstairs the entire time. But Mommy and Daddy figured that to avoid becoming a statistic, they should spend the occasional Saturday night doing something other than eating take-out thai food in front of Grey’s Anatomy, only to doze off before the latest iteration of “Doctor rips off nurse’s clothes in the medical supply room.” Dressed in her standby LBD and rocking her volumizing mascara, Mommy’s actually feeling pretty hot, until the sitter with Angelina legs sprouting from a skirt the size of a Bella Band greets her at the front door with a “Hi Mrs….” At least Mommy gets to enjoy a fancy dinner at the trendy new Italian eatery on the west west side of town that the single crew keeps checking into on Facebook. Until she does the mental math on the evening’s expenses and realizes that this ravioli dish (that she could “totally make at home” slash buy in the frozen food aisle) is costing her $18 per mouthful. Making conversation is challenging when Mommy and Daddy are both sleep deprived and checking their phones every two minutes to make sure you haven’t catapulted out of your crib or started a fire. And downing a bottle of red wine isn’t an option when someone has to drive the babysitter home at the end of the night to avoid blowing another $20 on cab fare. At these rates, Mommy and Daddy are going to have to crack some serious social whip. No more Jennifer Aniston movies or double dates with B-list couples until your 13th birthday.
DRINK: A $12 merlot and a pizza delivery menu. Sometimes it pays to be boring.