I have an issue with drinking alcohol when very small children are in my care. Babies. I don’t have a problem if my husband drinks, but I just can’t enjoy myself until the kids get to a certain age.

Part of it is fear that something bad will happen and one of us might need to react quickly, which you can’t really do if you’re drunk. The rogue accident could pop up at any time, but the kids just feel more vulnerable to the kind of emergencies that happen after bedtime when they’re babies. I also am afraid that one of those incidents would happen and we’ll need to drive the kid to the hospital, or call an ambulance and if we’re both be slightly intoxicated, that would look really bad. Again, of course, those things could happen anyway, but for some reason I’d feel less negligent about us both sporting a buzz at midnight while in the care of a seven-year-old than a seven-month-old.

The other problem is sleep. I cannot submit myself to the full somniferous effects of the wine or Baileys until the kids are routinely sleeping through the night. Otherwise, it’s just a bummer to get lulled into that dozy state of being, knowing that it’s likely you’re going to be roused soon to change a diaper or do a feeding or talk a little one down from a nightmare.
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I’m sitting at the library with my three-year-old and my phone vibrates in my pocket. I flip it open and there is a new text message:

“’Sup?”

I deftly reply on my QWERTY keypad, “Nuttin. We’re at the library, she’s playing with the magnetic letters. Brat in pigtails is trying to take them from her. The mother’s an asshat.”

I close my phone and put it back in my pocket. A minute later it vibrates again with another message:

“Yell at the kid. Yell at the mom. I’m in meetings all morning. Boring.”
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I was sitting in Parents’ Discussion Group at the pre-school last week, mildly enjoying the chit-chat and very much enjoying the coffee cake.  We were discussing what is most challenging about parenting a three-year-old.  Different things were brought up by different people, and I listened and nodded to these comments, but not really paying too much attention to them.  I’ve been at this parenting thing for fourteen years now and I feel I have a pretty good handle on the little one.  She tosses me some surprises sometimes, but for the most part, I feel confident about what we’re doing with her.  I’ve moved past a lot of the typical issues regarding this pre-school age, because I’m not at all worried about how to progress with my little one or how to deal with her difficult behaviors when they come up.  For a lot of the mothers in this group, their three-year-old is their oldest child, so these things are all new to them.  I know they get tired of my advice and know-it-all lectures about how their kids are normal and will grow out of this stage, so a lot of the time I keep quiet and eat the cookies or brownies or coffee cake.  I tend to tune in and out to the conversations make grocery lists in my head, or think about what we might want for lunch, or write blog entries to put on paper later.

“Yeah, Babywise, that’s the book!  By Ezzo!  You have GOT to get that book!”  One mother squealed.

I whipped my head around to see who said that.  Who was it that recommended Ezzo to another mother, out in public?

I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I think the piece of pastry I was chewing actually fell out of my open mouth, bounced off my thigh and fell onto the floor.  It was her?  I like her!  She’s an Ezzo follower?  No!  I could not have been more surprised if this mother had shouted “Heil Hitler,” or passed around snapshots of her kids dressed as Klansmen, or pulled up her sleeve to reveal the mark of a Death Eater magically etched into her arm.   Ezzo?

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Or… Why I give my heart and soul to Steve Carell.

Or… Anne Hathaway: too much of a good thing?

When I was in high school, I loved watching reruns of the old Get Smart series.  During my period of great teen cynicism, the show just matched what I needed perfectly, being cornball stupid and smartly sarcastic at the same time.  It would prepare my palate for The Daily Show and The Colbert Report which are the cleverest things on TV today.

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As the stay-at-home mother of a 3-year-old in an area where it gets ridiculously cold for half of the year, I find running errands to be a giant pain in the ass.  Every morning, I wake up and mentally run through what needs to be done, and if it involves more than a couple trips in and out of the car with the wee one, I just about cry.

See, it’s the car seat (which in itself is an errand deterrent even in the best weather conditions).  And, the clunky, slushy snow boots.  And, the big puffy coat that she can’t zip by herself.  And, the gloves (because she refuses to wear mittens) that I have to put each.and.every.little.finger.into.the.right.part.for.her. And, the fact that when she’s in this winter getup, her mobility is compromised, making her walk so slowly that she seems more like a movie special effect than my child.  And, it seems she’s all the time falling into a crap-colored puddle of something that started out as snow and when I pull her out of it, I get the yuck all over me.  And, each stop means hoisting her up into that car seat, dodging the wet filth on her boots, pulling the straps down over her puffy coat, finding the buckles underneath and between and around to make it all click, and then pulling and tightening and straightening it all up so that she’s safe and secure for our next venture down the road.

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