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.
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.
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.
Mommy has never spent more time at the mall then she has while on maternity leave. The irony of this is that Mommy has never been more broke and she can’t afford to buy anything. However, she can’t resist falling into Baby GAP. Her maternity benefits barely cover a Raspberry Rush from Jugo Juice, but it will cover this argyle sweater vest with skull and cross bones embroidery. A bear riding a motorcycle? On a onesie? Clearly you need to own this. Oooh little shoes! Mommy will take several pairs because you can’t walk yet so that makes perfect sense. Mommy’s closet looks like the “before” segment on What Not To Wear but your wardrobe could grace the pages of Bébé Vogue. Perhaps Mommy should feel bad that children not much older than you made these clothes but when the price tag reads $19.99 and there’s an additional 30% thanks to the online coupon, ring it up!
DRINK: The Memory GAP. Drink more than one of these and that’s what you’ll have. ½ oz cherry brandy, ½ oz light rum, ½ oz dark rum, 3 oz grapefruit juice, 1 oz orange juice, splash of grenadine. Serve over crushed ice.
One day in biology class you’ll learn that animals are attracted to other animals who display good symmetry (which the brain apparently equates with good genes and the production of healthy offspring.) What’s not taught in school is how the story ends: male courts female, they reproduce, and the female is robbed of the very thing that attracted her mate in the first place. Exhibit A: Mommy’s rack. The wonders of uneven milk supply mean Mommy’s right breast is a glorious double D, while her lowly left could play peek-a-boo(b) under a Hershey’s kiss wrapper. Exhibit B: Mommy’s arms. From holding you exclusively on one side for the better part of a year, Mommy’s left bicep could grace the cover of “MuscleMag”, while her right would lose to an Olsen twin in an arm wrestle. And Mommy obviously missed the part in What to Expect where it explained that your organs shift during pregnancy and then “more or less” go back to their original pre-pregnancy positions, although she did take note of Mother Nature’s generous baby shower gift of both stretch marks and spider veins. Good thing Daddy is attracted to Mommy for more than her looks. Like the sunny disposition that greets him when he comes home from work 15 minutes late. Oh wait.
DRINK: Live vicariously through your drink with a “Sexy Devil”. 1 oz vodka. 1/2 oz cranberry-flavoured vodka. 1/2 oz dry vermouth. Shake with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a fresh strawberry and a lemon peel. Note: best consumed while avoiding mirrors.
Mommy used to only really care about the environment when people were there to judge her. Of course she put her Diet Coke can in the office blue bin and it’s not like she was eating baby panda for breakfast but going out of her way to buy a car that runs on sunshine and hugs wasn’t high on her list of priorities. Since you’ve been born, however, she is struck by just how shitty we’ve been treating our planet. It’s a real buzz kill to actually watch the YouTube video of Gordon Ramsay’s shark fin soup exposé or discover via Twitter the ozone is so fucked that we’re all going to look like the cast of The Jersey Shore soon. If the North Pole melts and all Santa’s reindeer drowned in a flashflood, she’s pretty sure that will ruin your childhood. No longer can Mommy turn a blind eye to Mother Earth: Special Victims Unit. However, Mommy draws the eco-line at cloth diapers. After the toxic warfare that came out of you this morning, she’s buying Pampers.
DRINK: Organic local wine. Feel great about your headache the next day. The more throbbing it is, the more you did your part for the environment.
Mommy longs for the days when birthday parties involved bypassing the line at Devil’s Martini, dancing on speakers, doing Polar Bear shooters, and puking in a cab on the way home. Now, as adult birthdays fade into oblivion, only to emerge once a decade tainted with flamingos, “over-the-hill” cards and awkward-for-everyone mooning incidents, birthday parties have come to be about sacrificing your afternoon nap every other Saturday to witness the ultimate battle for gold in the Mommylympic games. Mommy can barely pull off buying a birthday gift on your behalf that doesn’t look recycled and dressing you in something that isn’t encrusted in puréed sweet potato, while the mother of the birthday girl has managed to bake a tiered princess cake from scratch, hand make customized party favours and send out thematic invitations by mail, weeks in advance. Mommy is banking on the limitations of your one-year-old memory as she fills out Evite’s first birthday party template, and orders two party-sized pepperoni pizzas and a $19.98 grocery-store cake the night before your big day.
DRINK: Confetti. 4 oz unsweetened cherry cider, 1 oz almond syrup, 1 apple, 1 pear, 1 peach. Combine with ice in a blender and blend until smooth. Consume while doing internal cartwheels that you’re not in labor today.
Pre-baby, Facebook was fun. Post-baby, Facebook is hell. The status updates from the non-baby crew are: Exotic travel! References to music! Checked-in at hipster pizzeria slash tequila bar! Mommy longs for the days where she was part of that elite crew who put their night back together through tagged photos and foursquare. And what the fuck is “Pinterest”? Mommy can’t keep up. The status updates from the baby-crew are: My baby! Don’t you love my profile pic that’s of my baby! Check out another upload of my baby! Below the photo there are comments from other parents about how cute the baby is, followed by many exclamation points. Mommy only wishes she could post what everyone’s really thinking: that kid ain’t right. Hey look, Mommy has a friend request! Sadly, it’s Insert Baby’s Name Here’s Mom from playgroup (Ignore). After commenting on a link to the latest OK Go video in an effort to project an image that she’s still cool, Mommy was tagged covered in regurgitated rice cereal at Rainbow Songs. Mommy’s status update: feeling as relevant as MySpace (wait, three friends “like” this?).
DRINK: The Friend Request. 5oz sparkling wine, 1oz raspberry vodka, splash of Chambord. Garnish with fresh berries and enjoy the instant friends you make when you serve it.
In the latest installment of “Mommy is Essentially a Talking Barn Animal,” the time has come to wean you. Weaning is the universe’s way of telling Mommy that the party is officially over. “Oh, you’re going back to work now? Fine. Time to hand over that free boob job you’ve been enjoying. Oh, and don’t forget to pick up your period on your way out.” If busting out her 32B bra collection (circa La Senza 2007) wasn’t punishment enough, Mommy also has to deal with Daddy’s gloating about the fact that she can no longer use breastfeeding as leverage. At least she’s got period cramps to fall back on. Mommy hereby promises to never be judgy about mothers who breastfeed their school-aged children again. Keep the party goin’ and the liquid a-flowin’ sisters!
DRINK: The Mad Cow. 3 oz Milk. 1/2 oz Coffee liqueur. 1/2 oz Hazelnut liqueur. 1/2 oz Vodka. 1/2 oz Irish Cream. Combine all ingredients into a shaker with ice. Serve in a glass lined with chocolate syrup and top mixture with whipped cream. Now scrape off all that whipped cream because you’re no longer burning 500 calories a day. Grrrrrr.