When Mommy loads up the stroller with enough crap to open a Babies R Us, it means it’s time to go to the park. Even though Mommy has brought wholesome, organic snacks, the first thing you do is eat sand. Mmm, notes of raccoon pee. Also, she forgot to pack your hat, which according to The Unspoken Rules of Parenting is the equivalent of leaving you outside naked in a snowstorm. At the playground, parenting shortcomings never go unnoticed. Flanked by Stepford Wives who whisper their disproval and a gaggle of nannies who openly discuss it in another language, Mommy is living an Orwellian existence. At least this means there are lots of other kids for you to play with / catch illnesses from. Including Terror Toddler. Mommy suppresses her inner Jerry Springer and tries not to freak out when this bully-in-training shoves you, snatches your pail and comes dangerously close to blinding you with a shovel. Who is this kid’s parent? Oh, it’s Weekend Dad, who is busy sexting last night’s piece of strange on his hip-holstered BlackBerry. Mommy decides to give Terror Toddler a pass, since that kid is going to be filled with self-loathing (and, let’s face it, pharmaceuticals) in about a dozen years. Meanwhile, Mommy gets her cardio burn on chasing you backwards up a slide, moving you out of the way of big kids on swings, and catching you from falling off the playground stairs. At least she no longer feels guilty about her lapsed gym membership. Speaking of exercise, now Weekend Dad is doing chin-ups on the monkey bars to impress the local MILFs. Maybe he should spend more time on his parenting skills and less time on his upper-body strength since Terror Toddler is currently aiming a Super Soaker at a sleeping newborn. Oh the park, where nature and nurture come together to bitch slap each other in the face.
DRINK: Parks & Wreck. 3 oz fresh lemon juice, 1 oz vodka, 1 tsp raw sugar. Serve over crushed ice, garnish with a lemon slice and fresh sprigs of basil. Rim glass with the sand that will permanently be tracked into your house.
It took 45 minutes to get you down. It takes 45 seconds for Mommy to think something has gone wrong.
MOMMY: Do you think the baby’s ok?
DADDY: Yes. Do not go back in there and wake him up. Can we please just watch Masterchef?
Daddy doesn’t understand Mommy’s intuition, which he calls “craziness.” She says she’s just going to listen outside your door, but really she’s going on a stealth mission back into your room. Thanks to the baby blackout blinds she can’t see if your chest is rising. Nor can she see Thomas The Train on the floor, which impales Mommy. She screams internally and, by some miracle, manages not to wake you. Since she’s as blind as Snooki’s stylist, she tries to listen for your breath. The plush lamb emitting whale sounds (slow clap for another toy that will cause you to lag in science) is masking any snores of life. Instead of turning down the orca sheep, she decides it’s time to Freak Out and Panic. She frantically grabs you and starts screaming your name. This instantly reveals you’re very much alive. Having been woken up from a peaceful slumber by an insane person, you’re terrified and bawling your eyes out. Hooray! It’s going to be another hour to get you down again, and now she’ll never know who won Chef Ramsey’s mystery box challenge, but she will repeat this process until you go off to college. At which point she’ll continually use all technology available to embarrass you / ensure you’re safe.
DRINK: AngelCocktail System. 1 oz pomegranate juice, 1 oz vodka, 1/2 oz triple sec, squeeze of lime, orange zest to garnish. Pairs beautifully with a $300 premium AngelCare System, complete with LCD night vision and false alarms that will cause you to have several mini heart attacks.
Sometimes, when she’s covered in baby barf, tortured by sleep deprivation and she’s as hormonal as Chaz Chad Bono, Mommy fantasizes about What Could Have Been. This involves mentally scrolling through (and, real talk, Facebook creeping) her roster of Exes with rose-tinted glasses. There was The Big Man With A Small Penis who would have made her a kept woman, complete with a mansion, a staff and a barely legal mistress. There was The Guy With No Backbone who did whatever she wanted all the time except go away and / or stop crying. There was The Metrosexual Man who loved to cook, shop, floss and was Fifty Shades of Gay. And what about The Hot Guy With No Career? At least Mommy would be keeping up with her Brazilian waxes while she went broke funding his t-shirt printing business. Ultimately though, when you throw your pudgy arms around her neck and bare your big toothy grin, Mommy is incredibly grateful for Daddy. They made you together. Then she reminds herself that they are called “exes” for a reason.
DRINK: Molson Ex. Make sure it’s ice cold.