Thursday, November 14, 2013

Going dry

"I always believed that I would stop drinking once I had children. I didn’t want my kid to end up in some church basement explaining how he could always remember the floral notes of Pinot Noir on Daddy’s breath. My home would be like my parents’ home where the sight of a Bud in our refrigerator would prompt a call to Poison Control. Then I had three kids under the age of two. Now there is more Stella in our fridge than Similac.

While we care about our kids’ development and happiness, our days have assumed a singular and all-encompassing purpose: getting to 7 o’clock. By this time we are tired, soiled in all matter of bodily fluids, and doubtful of our parental abilities. We have spent the better part of the last twelve hours feeding, burping, swaddling, unswaddling, changing, scolding, and hushing two infant girls (and a toddler) who no doubt will express their appreciation by enrolling in a twin study at the local university and use the money for breast implants. There is a perpetual splotch of spit-up on my shirt because I am too tired and indifferent to use a burp cloth. I have stubbed my little toe on the base of a bouncer fifteen times. My wife’s once-tight curly hair has exploded into a giant ball of frizz. She looks absolutely insane and quite possibly is. There is a good chance I contracted conjunctivitis after my son crapped in the bathtub and proceeded to have a splash party. Between the day-old vomit on our rug and dirty diapers, our apartment has more health code violations than a Mumbai slum.

Consequently, we have taken to the bottle. With a restorative slug of alcohol the world, for a moment, makes sense. We can laugh at our parental inadequacies, our daughters’ smiles, and the fact that our son believes, not so erroneously, that the phrase “thank you” should be used as frequently as possible regardless of the situation. With alcohol, sex becomes a distant possibility. Coffee gets us through the day; alcohol gives us the fortitude to do it again.

The biggest danger of drinking with kids is not, as you might think, getting so hammered that you pee in the bottle warmer. Rather, it’s getting hungover. A glass of wine or two may give you an emotional lift at the end of a long day but the morning after several scotches will drive you to request an informational pamphlet on vasectomies. Because at 6 a.m. my kids are getting up no matter how hard my head is pounding. They will begin a relentless course of high-decibel noise-making that will challenge my antipathy towards corporal punishment and China’s one child policy. It will require everything I learned about Zen meditation in my sophomore year of college to get to 7 p.m."

When Baby Hits the Bottle, So Does Daddy -

After a boozy summer, seem to be back to drinking once a week. If that. Rural living?

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