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“We have to go out on a date at LEAST every other week after the baby comes,” Mr. Candy and I had agreed. That agreement was made was WAY back in the day, a whole seven weeks ago, when I was still pregnant, naive and showered.
We did manage to go out for a solo dinner when my parents were here. Skylar was just three days old and in that phase when she was sleeping 23 hours a day in an effort to avoid the goofy faces and silly voices we’d use any time she’d dare to open her eyes. It was a romantic dinner, for sure, marked with me gulping down an entire salmon sushi roll in one bite, checking my watch every three seconds, and constantly asking Mr. Candy, “Aren’t you done yet, you freakin’ slowpoke?!” At one point I seem to remember actually reaching over the table and stuffing chicken teriyaki down Mr. Candy’s throat to get us out of there faster. Then again, I was deliriously exhausted during that time, so maybe that choking incident was just a figment of my fatigued imagination. For the sake of my marriage, let’s say it was.
That “every other week” plan has seemingly devolved into an “every eight weeks” plan. Not due of lack of trying on Mr. Candy’s part. He has, bless his heart, tried everything in his power to drag me away from the little one and have a night out together. An effort that invariably is met with an eyeroll and shake of my head. Yes, I have become one of THOSE moms. A baby-obsessed, romance-devoid mom. Oh, what fun I am! Yet I am perfectly content — nay, determined — to remain chained to Miss Skye. Other than my cousin who lives 45 minutes away, we do not have family within 4,000 miles of us, and it’s hard for me to stomach the idea of leaving our precious baby in the care of a babysitter. So outside of the occasional family dinner at nearby diners, I have remained mostly at home, enjoying delicious microwave meals and ice cream sandwich crumbs I’d dropped on my chest earlier that week.
Until next week, that is. Because that day has arrived. A day to be celebrated with my FIRST alcoholic drink in more than ten months. Me, who used to have more tequila than blood coursing through her veins! That day being, of course, my birthday.
Mr. Candy has lined up a lovely, responsible babysitter for the evening. We have plans to go a Los Angeles hotspot with great food and even better drinks. Finally, a chance to dress up and remember what it feels like to go out with poop-free hair.
Oh, how I’m dreading it.
Every time I even think about leaving Skylar behind, I begin to panic. What if she thinks I’ve abandoned her? What if she doesn’t want to take a bottle? What if the babysitter, like, barters her for a six-pack of Amstel Light? IT HAPPENS MORE THAN YOU THINK, people! Just watch any Lifetime Movie of the Week — you’ll see.
Clearly, there is only one healthy way to ease this separation anxiety: alcohol. Kicking off the birthday celebration with a libation should calm my nerves, for sure. It will also dull my embarrassment should my boobs leak in public. As they’ve been known to do. (Sorry you had to witness that, Mortified Starbucks Barista.)
Question is, what should my first drink in almost a year be? A margarita? A Guinness? A Mother’s Milk? (Ha, haaaa!) If you have any suggestions, let me know. One request: Something that complements ice cream sandwich crumbs would be ideal.