As I mentioned before, New Year’s Eve was über-fun and über-brutal. The long and short of it is I paid for acting like a non-parent.
This little story sums it up nicely. The morning of New Year’s Day – a mere six hours after we’d rung in the new year and a mere four hours after I’d fallen into bed like a spaghetti Western stunt man – I went to feed Seabass like I always do at 6:30am. But as I pulled the nursing bra flap down, what should fall out and cascade off my precious baby’s face before hitting the floor? A tube of red lipstick.
We spent New Year’s Eve at a restaurant downtown that shut its doors, turned down the lights, cranked the tunes and poured liberal quantities of gloriously good wine. Meeting up with a few other couples – all of them parents of babies, as well – we danced and laughed and sipped our way from 9pm to 2:30am like our younger selves of yore. The only noticeable difference was that we all held our phones pretty tightly, in case the babysitter called. But I’d entrusted Grandma and Grandpa with Baby Seabass at home, so I felt free. I felt light.
More to the point: I felt like I had to make up for lost time.
One of my fellow moms Facebooked me the next day (can Facebook be a verb now that it’s gone public?) with the following message:
It was a great night…up until I have no memory of it, which was around 11:45ish, and then it is all left to others to fill in the blanks for me. Party virgin is an understatement for me – I get the title of Party Amateur. Goodness what was I thinking, to drink Gin n Tonics like it was pre-baby days.
It may not be much of a controversy, but it’s certainly a conundrum: How do you balance the fun of adulthood with the responsibility of parenthood?