Amid the clutter on our kitchen counter today are two glass bottles. One is tall and dark - an empty bottle of $12 Pinot Noir. The other is short and clear with a lime stuck at the bottom.
I drank the Corona and the last glass of wine today. Around noon.
But I just felt like drinking.
The baby wasn't even crying. Not at the moment anyway. And she actually hasn't even been all that much to handle (not compared to her brother anyway, who basically screamed for 3 1/2 months. But of course that was probably because he was starving. Breastfeeding and a tongue-tied infant do not work. And should not be tried. Ever).
But back to the booze. I haven't felt much like eating. Nothing sounds good. And the tummy still needs some work. (I'm working on implementing the ab routine). But beer, after nine months without it, sounds good.
Don't think I'm a drunk. I'm not. Even without alcohol for that long, one "gateway" beer doesn't do a whole lot, if much of anything.
I sort of think I just want to drink it because now i can.
Hear me roar, land of the unpregnant!
Or maybe it is to cope with the crazy last couple weeks we've had.
I never wrote the whole birth story here, but the abbreviated version (mind you: I'm not very good at abbreviated versions) is this:
Sunday, May 17, was Rye's birthday. An hour and a half before his party, a neighbor came to tell me that another neighbor's dog had attacked one of my cats. Horrified, I ran through my neighbor's backyard and nine months pregnant hopped a chain link fence, pried this Greyhound's jaws off my poor cat's throat and then rushed her to the emergency vet.
I missed the first 45 minutes of Rye's party (and tonight, he said, "Why didn't you come to my birthday party?") and wasn't sure if my battered cat was going to make it.
That night (morning) at 3:30 a.m., I woke up with extreme low back pain and after 20 minutes or so knew I was in labor. All I could think: What about the cat? I was to pick her up at the emergency vet at 7:30 and take her to our vet across town. Dane ended up doing that, and while he was gone, Rye threw up.
Paige's birth story will always include the detail of Mommy holding Rye over the kitchen sink so he could hurl while she endured a contraction.
The vomiting meant he couldn't go to daycare. So my mom came. From Fremont. Which is at least a 45-minute drive.
We made it to the hospital in plenty of time, however, and Paige arrived with no problem and much joy.
Little Kitty, though, ended up dying, alone overnight, at the vet's office Tuesday night. We buried her Wednesday, the day we came home from the hospital, in the backyard. Rye used his blankie at one point to wipe away my tears (does it get any sweeter than that?)
And as if that wasn't enough excitement for our little family, a few nights ago, we got to call 911. (Yes, I know, Mother, I haven't told you this yet). Paige had spit up in her sleep and seemed to be choking and really in need of help. She was obviously in distress but couldn't cry or cough or do anything. After a few minutes of this, I told Dane to call 911. So little Paige and I got to ride in an ambulance and spend five hours in the ER at Children's Hospital. She is fine, but they did chest X-rays and blood tests and for a while at least seemed concerned.
Her pediatrician the next day said the worst she has is reflux. We have medicine for that and instructions on how often to feed her and how much. She also has to sleep in an inclined position for 30 minutes after she eats.
This whole event, of course, means I'm terrified to leave her alone. So she's been sleeping in the car seat next to my bed.
And she really is doing fine.
But all this - does it justify the mid-day booze?