"Well, THAT wasn't so bad!" Candy thought, based on her "momory" of childbirth, despite having the shakes for four hours after delivery and a burning vagina for weeks to come

Function:  Noun

1.  A mom’s selective memory of the child-birthing and -rearing experiences.

a.  In retrospect, the momory of labor and delivery, and the sleepless nights with a screaming baby, are not as bad as they were in reality.

b.  The momory allows a mom to quickly forget how much it sucked when her baby had a cold and ear infection while her husband was on a business trip, and she did not sleep for an entire week.  (“You’re saying I sobbed and said that was the worst week ever and that I never EVER wanted to have a child again in a million years and that I wanted to divorce you on grounds of abandonment?  Really?  Huh.  I don’t remember that at all.  All I know is… I GOT A BABY HUG TODAY!  I LOVE BEING A MOM!”)

c.  Oftentimes momories of these experiences become increasingly pleasant as a mom’s desire for another baby grows.  (i.e., “Awwww, look at your baby!  I miss having a newborn sleep on my chest.  You know, now that I think about it, pushing out a ten-pound baby actually felt FINE!  Maybe I should have another one?”)

d.  The momory is deemed necessary for continued reproduction and the existence of the human race; otherwise, no sane woman would EVER give birth again.

Syn.:  Repression; denial

I cannot condone drinking anything except Guinness on the actual holiday.  But as a pre-celebration…?  A green drink is appropriate enough, I think.  (And I should know, being an honorary Irishwoman and all.)  So I present to you…

THE DIRTY GIRL SCOUT (Also known as:  Candy and Mr. Candy’s Drink of 2004; also:  a drink that tastes way better than it looks)

INGREDIENTS

* 1 oz.  Baileys Irish Cream (I substituted the Mint Chocolate variety because I’m crazy like that)
* 1/2 oz.  Creme de Menthe (green)
* 1 oz.  Kahlúa
* 1 oz.  Vodka (Any kind will do.  A friend of ours in the liquor industry SWEARS they’re all the same.  However, Mr. Candy tested that theory by spending a night with a bottle of cheap-ass Kamchatka and, well, his stomach begs to differ.)

INSTRUCTIONS

Even us ladies afflicted with Mommy Brain can handle this one:   Mix all ingredients in cocktail shaker and pour over ice in glass of your choice:  highball, martini, sippy cup, what-have-you.

Sláinte!  Again, don’t judge the drink by its puke-green cover.  Nine out of ten alcoholics agree its dee-lish.

Word of warning:  It tastes yummy, but it can creep up on you.

After this drink, Mr. Candy passed out on the couch.  True story.  Guess we CAN’T party like it’s 2004 anymore.  So sad.

Evil, thy name is Candy.

When I gave birth to Miss Skye, I figured those days were behind me.  Which proves I am not only evil, but also embarrassingly naive.  Because I’ve learned the second you have a baby, nobody cares about that baby anymore.  It’s all about:  “When are you going to have another baby?  You’ve GOT to have another BABY!”  A question to which I genuinely respond by shrugging, “I dunno.  Maybe never?”

Oh, the looks I get from admitting that.  As if I’d just said I let my kid gnaw on crack pipes (something I never do without proper supervision).  As if allowing my daughter to be an only child will surely drive her into a life of acute loneliness and no social skills, forcing her to move to a remote cabin without electricity or running water, and eventually cry out for attention by launching a campaign of deadly mail bombings.

Which is just ridiculous.  No electricity?  No child of ours could ever get by without a flat iron.  (Wavy, frizzy hair runs on both sides of the family.)

Real responses I’ve gotten:

“Having one child is cruel.”

“I have a nephew who’s an only child and I just feel SO SORRY FOR HIM.”

“But wouldn’t you like to try for a boy?!”

By the way, the “cruel” remark…?  Offered up by none other than my 90-year-old Grandma Kirby who purposely had only ONE CHILD and wasn’t even particularly enthusiastic about nurturing that one.   Yeah, okay, pot.

But more on Grandma Kirby later.

The interaction between siblings can be beautiful to behold.  And, now that I am a parent and love the experience more than I’d ever imagined possible, I am slightly more open to the idea of having another rugrat.  Slightly.  Depends on which day you ask me.  That said, what business is it of theirs?   Is it so wrong I’m happy with our little family, as is?  What if we tried and couldn’t have any more?  Now we know if we don’t have another kid, they’ll be looking at Miss Skye and feeling SO SORRY FOR HER for having such cruel, cruel parents.

I am like an only child, myself, with much older siblings who’d moved out of the house by the time I was in school.  Far from being lonely, family rumor has it I actually begged my parents at one point to not have any more kids.  I’m convinced being only child-esque made me creative, independent and capable of entertaining myself.  Yes, it also made me an attention whore — but rather than become the Unabomber, I simply forced my parents to watch my one-woman performances of “Annie.”

So, basically, I still inflicted pain on innocent victims.

Maybe next time someone asks, “When are you going to have another baby?  You’ve GOT to have another BABY,” I’ll just break out into song:  “It’s the hard-knock life for us! It’s the hard-knock life for us!   ‘Steada treated, we get tricked!  ‘Steada kisses, we get kicked! It’s the hard-knock life.”

Yeah, that should put an end to the discussion pretty quickly.

With no siblings, Miss Skye is tragically forced to play with her only friend: the remote control.

Oh, it’s SO on!  Skye has donned her best dance tights, hopped in the Jumperoo and officially challenged Michael Flatley to a Lord of the Dance-Off. 

Not surprisingly, it’s a real nail-biter to the very end.

Let’s face it:  mommies (and daddies) need to get their drink on, too, sometimes.  Okay, a LOT of the time.

So I am officially kicking off a new weekly column:  Candy’s TGIF Drink of the Week.  I realize I’m a bit late in helping you celebrate TGIF today — blame Skye’s doctor’s appointment and an incident involving my car that I won’t mention so I don’t embarrass Mr. Candy (that totally involves him borrowing my almost brand-new Audi and running into a shopping cart and deeply scratching the ENTIRE passenger side and me furrowing my brow and clenching my fists and biting my tongue for the rest of the day, but again, my lips are sealed) — but Candy’s TGIF Chocolate Martini goes down smoothly any time, so it’s more of a TGIN (Thank God It’s Now) kind of drink, anyway.

CANDY’S TGIN CHOCOLATE MARTINI

INGREDIENTS

Godiva Chocolate Liqueur  (3 shots)

Smirnoff or Stoli Vanilla Vodka (1 shot if you want it to be really smooth or 1 and 1/2 shots if you’d like an extra “kick”)

Chocolate Bar

INSTRUCTIONS

Mix Godiva and vanilla vodka in cocktail shaker.  Make shavings out of chocolate bar by using a potato peeler.  Yes!  A potato peeler.

Pour Godiva/vodka mixture into glass.  Sprinkle shavings on top of delicious goodness.  (And/or swirl chocolate syrup in glass and/or place Hershey’s Kiss in bottom of glass beforehand. Basically, the objective is to incorporate as much chocolate as possible).

And… voilà!

Heaven in a martini glass.

A virtual toast to us parents!  We deserve it.

At some point this past week, Skye turned seven months old.  I say “at some point” because there was no 29th of February, so her seven-month anniversary kind of got lost in the ether.  One day she’ll wish she could skip birthdays, but this time, we properly celebrated the awesome passage of another month of life with several shots of banana oatmeal, followed by ample time in the Jumperoo.  You should see this kid jump and kick in that crazy contraption.   Michael Flatley ain’t got nothing on her!

My little Lordess of the Dance.

Seven months has also ushered in better sleeping habits, lots o’ rollin’ on the floor, baby kisses, baby hugs around the neck, and “da da da da da”s (which I blame on my mother-in-law’s brainwashing) and “blah blah blah”s (which I blame on Ke$ha).

The other day I witnessed a five-year-old(ish) boy throwing a SERIOUS temper tantrum at the doctor’s office and, at one point, I’m quite certain his head did a 360.  I thought to myself, “Oh boy.  ENJOY your pleasant baby while you can, lady.”

And I am.

Lesson #1:  According to my mother, because I have decided to breastfeed for a — GASP! — year, I am going to be one of those women who swings by the high school cafeteria during lunch because I WILL STILL BE NURSING MY DAUGHTER INTO HER TEENAGE YEARS.  Which is ridiculous.  I have no plans to nurse after the kid moves on from junior high.

Also, if my mom is not careful, I’m going to go Grandma Kirby on her ass and annoy her with countless articles about how the medical community actually recommends breastfeeding for a year and even beyond.  (Yes, Grandma Kirby used to send many clipped newspaper articles to all of us on various inane topics.  My personal favorite was a pointed article explaining the dangers of living together before marriage when Mr. Candy and I, well, lived together in sin.  The title:  “Is He Just Using You for Sex?”  My response:  “How does she know I’m not using HIM for sex?”)

Lesson #2:  A cat KNOWS when you’ve “hidden” Prozac in his Meow Mix.  And he only becomes more depressed because you have ruined his favorite meal of the day.

Lesson #3:  When your baby falls ill with a miserable cold and ear infection, and passes that cold/flu on to you, and your husband is traveling that entire week leaving you with no support system, there is only one constructive way to handle the situation:  CRY AND COMPLAIN.  Also, keep in mind nobody will care that you are sick.  Their concern is reserved for the baby ONLY.  So be sure to direct your complaints to the cat/dog, because s/he is the only one who truly cares about YOU.

ME:  I feel like I’m going to die…

MR. CANDY:  BUT HOW IS THE BABY?!

ME:  I am leaving you for the cat.

Lesson #4:  Being awakened at 6AM by a baby squawking like a pterodactyl is much more palatable when said baby enthusiastically grabs your face and gives you big, wet, sloppy baby kisses on the cheek.  Well-played, Miss Skye.

Lesson #5:  Solid foods can cause a baby to have weird poop and her first-ever diaper rash.  Damn you, strained green beans!

Lesson #6:  If you discover you’re not totally inept in the kitchen, do not share that revelation with others or else they will expect you to cook for them, too.  *GULP*

Lesson #7:  If your house is a pigsty and your cat just took a very smelly dump in the downstairs litter box, your neighbors WILL choose that moment to stop by unexpectedly.  (So.  Mortified.)

Lesson #8:  Godiva Chocolate Liqueur + Vanilla Vodka = YUM

Lesson #9: As much as Skye loves her father and me, she will never love us as much as she loves her tongue:

Lesson #10:  You cannot truly appreciate the phrase “time flies” until you have a child of your own.  Miss Skye just turned SEVEN MONTHS OLD, people!  Which means only eleven years and five months of breastfeeding left!

Look at that guy.  It’s a shame he’s such a turd.

Not so sure we can say the same about Goldie (R.I.P.).

My contest pursuit may have waned over the years due to nonsense like having to WORK and look after my kid, but my passion for contests still burns within, much like Miss Skye’s new (and first-ever) diaper rash.  So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled to learn I had won Tot Trends Weekly’s Baby Gift Basket contest — especially considering I didn’t even realize I had entered it.  This basket of baby goodies may have even trumped the free dinner at Denny’s I once scored from Wink 104 FM.  Yes!  Even better than a complimentary Moons Over My Hammy platter.

Here is the highlight of my winnings:

A homemade BABY HAT!  I think I’ve made my feelings about baby hats clear.

And here is the freebie that earns the dubious honor, “ONESIE THAT INSULTS MY VAGINA”:

That’s right:  Not womb, but WOUND.  Freud would have a field day with this.

I handed this to Mr. C, tears streaming down my face.  Tears of laughter, that is.

“This is a dark day for you,” I warned.

“Why?  ARE WE OUT OF HERSHEY’S SYRUP?” he cried in horror.  Mr. Candy simply cannot get through an evening without chugging a massive glass of chocolate milk.

“No.  Just… look at your mail.”  An actual snort of laughter may have followed.  I can neither confirm nor deny whether this embarrassing snort occurred.

“Oh god.  What the –?  This is not good.  This is not good,” Mr. Candy kept mumbling.  Then he looked at me.  “You are just loving this, aren’t you?”

I may or may not have been holding my legs together to avoid peeing myself laughing at this point.

“I guess 35 is the new 55!” I declared, laughing at my own joke as I so often do.  “It was probably your Huey Lewis CD collection that tipped them off…”

“I hope you DO pee your pants,” my hubby sniffed before shuffling off to the kitchen to console himself with TWO glasses of chocolate milk.

Please.  I think we all know if anybody is going to be peeing his/her pants around here, it’s going to be the AARP member.