Forget saving up to buy you a car when you turn 16. Mommy’s already blown thousands of dollars on devices designed to get you from point A to B, and you’re barely 16 months. It started with the car seat. Your nephew’s discarded models were taking up prime storage space in the basement for five years before Mommy and Daddy learned that car seats have expiry dates. Seriously? The 1999 Corolla in which it will be installed is one frost away from collapse, but the 2006 Britax Marathon is already obsolete?! But, with your safety their top priority, Mommy and Daddy sprung $200 for a brand new bucket seat, which you proceeded to outgrow in less time than you spent in the womb. Nice. Then there was the hotly debated issue of which baby-wearing device to purchase. Despite witnessing multiple demos by store clerks on some petrifying plastic dolls, Mommy never actually understood how to use the three baby carriers she ended up purchasing during a hormone-induced shopping spree. And the idiot-proof YouTube instructional videos she resorted to after your birth were far too complex for her sleep-deprived brain. In the end, she struck gold with a hand-me-down sling… an unfortunate outcome given it looked like a cross between Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat and the wallpaper in her Grandma’s bathroom. Last but not least (refer to exhibit A – Mommy’s new line of credit) was your stroller. Mommy thought it was reasonable to expect that a $1000 model would fulfill your every need (and wildest desire), but apparently not so. It seems that you and your peers require a cavalcade of strollers: one for the city, one for travel, even one that Mommy’s expected to push while jogging. All of this was lovely until you learned to walk. Now, placing you in a stroller of any kind elicits shrieks so blood-curdling that Mommy regularly checks the seat for sharp objects. Your newfound mobility brings tears to Mommy’s eyes – you’re all grown up and now it takes 45 minutes to travel a half a block. Wahh!
DRINK: Singapore Sling. 1 oz gin. 1/2 oz cherry brandy. 1/2 oz grenadine. 2 oz sweet and sour mix. 2 oz chilled club soda. Pour ingredients into an ice-filled glass, and garnish with a cherry.
Mommy does laundry all day, every day. Apparently, a clean onesie is a tractor beam for all things stain-y. The perpetual spin cycle is running up her hydro bill and has definitely killed several baby seals in environmental damage. First it was explosive poo causing the never-ending fluff ‘n fold. Lately, it’s self-feeding. Mommy is worried you’re not getting enough nutrients because entire avocados are being mashed into your chinos. Of course, you think this is hilarious. As a prop comic, your go-to routine involves covering yourself in tomato sauce, berries and squash purée, and the punchline is flinging all of it on to Mommy’s one decent H&M wrap dress. Mommy is only using fragrance-free, chemical-free, function-free detergents which means no stain comes out ever. She’s tempted to dress you all in black and start a Goth Baby trend. Anarchy in the crib!
DRINK: Anything sudsy with a clean finish.
During a moment of weakness back in 2007, Mommy was seduced by a sandwich board outside her local fitness club advertising membership fees of $18/month, without any initiation charges or commitments. Of course, later examination of the contract’s fine print would reveal that Mommy had signed her life away for a free t-shirt, but she was willing to overlook the management’s questionable ethics for a chance at scoring the body gracing the club’s promotional flyer. But now that Mommy’s workouts have gone the way of other pre-baby pastimes like surfing selloffvacations.com and eating a meal sitting down, Mommy is toying with the idea of cancelling her gym membership once and for all. She’s been to the gym exactly twice since your birth and the only thing more painful than walking the next day was the realization that each visit cost her $765. Mommy knows that investing that money in her retirement fund could be her ticket to Freedom 55. But she’s also plagued by the fear that throwing in her gym towel could be the gateway to getting a low-maintenance haircut or buying Crocs. Yes, Mommy is exhausted, time-starved and hasn’t picked up an issue of InStyle since her first trip to Motherhood Maternity, but if her annual donation to the gym is the price she needs to pay to keep her quest for rock-hard abs alive, Mommy is silencing her inner Suze Orman and holding on to the dream, dammit!
DRINK: A six pack. Of Red Bull. Another way to not get ripped.
It used to be a dinner reservation. Now, it’s a bedtime. By the time Mommy feeds you squash, washes squash off the wall, and gets you to bed, she has exactly 23 minutes to eat whatever you didn’t in front of The Bachelorette before she passes out with her hair crusted in squash. Being up at 2am used to mean it was a good night. Now it’s a very, very bad night. It means Mommy will also be up at 3, 4, 5, and up for good at 6am. Those wee hours used to be for flirting with the bartender to keep the drinks flowing while sexting her back-up plan for a booty call. Now she spends that time praying you will go back to sleep while What’s App-ing her sleep-deprived mommy friends and cursing the “bullet-proof” No Cry Sleep Solution. Sometimes, when Mommy’s in line for her fourth Americano Misto of the day, she’ll overhear a twenty-something lament about being “soooo exhausted”. When Mommy was single, “exhaustion” referred to a state of ennui that came from being bored with skinny jeans and dating guys with ironic mustaches. Mommy misses that kind of tired.
DRINK: The After Eight. 1 oz crème de cacao, 1 oz crème de menthe. Add a splash of milk. Serve on the rocks. Enjoy after 8 p.m. but before 9 p.m. lest you turn into a sleep-deprived Gremlin the next day.