A few weeks ago, Mike and I were invited to a daytime party...seems simple, right? A party? You know what that is. It's a gathering of interesting (hopefully) people who stand around, sipping Pinot Grigio and grazing on hummus (at least that's what it usually is in Los Angeles. I'm not sure what parties are like in other parts of the world where I'm sure they indulge in carbohydrates). In my old life, Mike and I would drop absolutely anything to go to a party. If we were on The Real Housewives of West Hollywood, our fellow castmembers would say that we'd "attend the opening of an envelope." Where there's free booze, good music and fun people, we're sold.
So when the invitation for the, oh wait, did I mention that this gathering was a crawfish boil? A daytime, "celebrate the fact that it's almost summer, red and white checkered tablecloth decorated, bonafide Southern afternoon"...just south of Sunset Blvd. Okay, so when the invitation for the crawfish boil bumbled our way, I reminded Mike of an important fact. "We have a baby," I grunted. And Mike, in his "nothing really fazes him and what's really the point of thinking ahead about how annoying it is to have a baby at a party with a gazillion people during naptime way" replies with, "So?" I actually think that this conversation sums up our entire relationship.
ME: "But we have a baby."
MIKE: "So..."
Yeah, so? So, we have a baby who needs to nap, who needs to crawl, who can't sit still for five f-ing seconds, who freaks out in large crowds, who....Oh. My. God. It's happened. I've become the "inflexible mommy." A person I NEVER EVER want to be. Inflexible mommy is ruled by "the schedule." Inflexible mommy is dominated by all things naptime, food time, what's right for baby and who gives a sh-t about me? Needless to say, inflexible mommy is not fun at parties. Inflexible mommy isn't fun anywhere.
So, Mike and I have a fight during which he reminds me of who I'm becoming and that if I don't relax, I'm going to have an inflexible offspring who isn't fun either. Good talk. Good talk.
But as with most things in our almost 10 year relationship, Mike can't deny the fact that I'm right about almost everything. We'll probably be the only people at this party with a baby. This house will be a death trap. There will be no place to put him (bring the Baby Bjorn). He'll probably get really cranky and we'll have to leave. And, my personal favorite, he can't deny that our party life has been drastically altered. A baby is a buzz kill--let's just call it like it is.
So we show up and, of course, I'm right. The party is so lovely. The decor is lovely. The crawfish are a boilin' and the baby is ready to spring out of his stroller and crawl all over anything that will give Mike and me a heart attack. We weave through the crowd and find a seat at the edge of the crowd like a couple of pariahs (Guess what? We have a baby. That's how that works). Mike assures me that Max is having a great time (which he is--he's smiling at everyone and everyone is loving him). I grab Max and introduce him to all the non-baby peeps. I spy a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, grab it and head back to the table. Now that should be the image that sums up my version of motherhood. A baby on one arm and a bottle of Chardonnay in the other.
But all in all, inflexible mommy starts to chill out and we're having a grand time. Why would I ever worry about taking him to a non baby daytime extravaganza? We should do this all the time. Gee, I stress myself out about a lot of things that...and in slow motion...I watch as Mike gives Max a sip of what he things is water from a red cup, but what I know is a margarita. I watch as Max takes a slug of it, wrinkles his entire face, and then proceeds to smack the bottom of the cup, spilling the entire contents of the cocktail on his head, all over his outift and all over Mike. He's sobbing and inflexible mommy kicks into high gear.
MIKE: "Don't worry! It's just water."
ME: "Um...it's not just water. It's just tequila!"
We rip the baby's clothes off and it occurs to me that this is his Will Ferrel in Old School moment. Max is a party animal and I was going to rob him of his first real party foul. It was a messy mazel tov moment. After Max was all dry in his soft baby skin deliciousness, Mike and I smelled his head (something that everyone does with babies) and grinned--not because he smelled like "baby" but because he reeked of margarita.
"Yum" I hummed, and took a swig of my Chardonnay.
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