One Night (Out)…


Not five minutes from home I’m thinking, What if there’s an earthquake, what if he chokes in his crib and the MF (Mater Figure) doesn’t know he’s choking, what if the cat impulsively sleeps on his face, what if he gets his blankie twisted around his head, what if a drunk driver hits us and we’re killed. I’m thinking, This going out stuff is for other parents, I am boobs and lullabies, protector with spigots, hugely supportive fan bearing milk ducts. I’m thinking, Turn the f****** minivan around and let’s get the f*** home right the f*** now before it’s too f****** late to f****** save him.

And just then we pull up at an amazing all-windows-and-tasteful-art creation in WeHo and inside is one of my favortie mommies in the world, Dubya-Mommy, hugging me and my husband hands me a glass of champagne and proceeds to really admirably entertain party guests with Dubya-Mommy’s witty husband and it hits me: I’m out of our condo, in WeHo, wearing a little bit of make-up and a going-out outfit including my old black suede boots with the creaks in the heels that I can’t explain and my pre-birthday manicure is glowing and I’m in a little whirl of soiree with a drink that tastes like honey, a gourmet crudite on the horizon and I forget about my baby. Just. Like. That.

Until another mommy introduces herself saying she has a 15 month old girl and since she and her husband are freelancers and keep odd hours (the mommy’s eyes, at this point, begin to grow huge and wild), their daughter has no set schedule, nor seems keen on a schedule, actually doesn’t want a schedule and the mommy confesses she hasn’t had sleep in 15 months, or at least far less sleep than I’ve had and I nod sympathetically as she snarls and growls about the ridiculous concept of schedules for children, stupid, who needs schedules, no need, her hand gestures becoming relative to a panicked bird’s wings flapping hard and fast and I sip my exquisite champagne thinking, Oh my poor, sleep-deprived darling mommy, you are full of s***. And when she takes a breath to tear into her cake like a hyena into flesh, I tell her my son brings me his blanket when he is ready to nap, which is vaguely around the same time every day. And I watch the mommy’s bravado crinkle a little, then tumble like old cliffs into a beating ocean because she is tired, just so, so tired—and because she is too exhausted to hide her exhaustion, or because she can’t hear about schedules, or because she despises my meted grain of potential hope, or perhaps because she doesn’t like me, or perhaps because she does, she vacates my personal space. And I take another sip of champagne and focus on my husband’s transformation from tired daddy to savvy comic, thinking, Farewell fellow sleepless mommy, I feel for you, I do—but you’ve made my NIGHT.

One Response to “One Night (Out)…”

  1. PB says:

    PB! I’m torn that you are torn with both compassion and a little evil chuckle for that poor sleep-deprived freelance mommy. After all, your son develops a sleep schedule one week, or two, then acts completely baffled as to why you want him to sleep at 2am. So! Think about that, PB, before you blog about another sleepless mommy! Okay?