Saturday, June 23, 2007


I am not sure whether it is because of the new sense of guilt that accompanies me everywhere or the to-do list that never ends, but sometime in the past two weeks I have had my first twinges of missing my old life. There have been quite a few times I have considered handing Samara off to the first seemingly capable person who passes us. "Could you please watch this baby for like 24 hours while I work out, drink and party please?" Wonder how that would go over. Some examples:

1.) The other day I went to spinning class with my favorite teacher--the very motivating and very hard core Jon. This week, his entire playlist was Dave Matthews band. If Jon himself is a throwback to my college days (outdoorsy, scruffy Greenwich boy with a youngish attitude), Dave Matthews is the soundtrack. Five minutes into "Ants Marching" and I wonder if I have a paper due. It seems like it was 50 years ago sometimes.

2.) R and I finally put the wee one down for a nap this week and were trying to get some much needed time alone. As soon as we were getting comfortable, Samara was in tears. Cue the end of alone time and the beginning of "frustrated and angry R time."

3.) Samara is anti-gym daycare these days. Not sure why, but she refuses to be there past the forty minute mark--right around the time I am starting my second round of cardio after lifting. I now find myself envying R his lunch hour. Yes he works his tush off all day long, but he gets an un-baby-encumbered EIGHT hours. I have not had more than two hours to myself since before I can remember. Even when I am "off duty" I am on.

4.) The other day I wistfully fingered my cutest Betsey Johnson sundress. With its halter top and fitted style, there is no way it is going on me while I am still nursing and need industrial strength bras. I bought some cute, colorful (overly expensive) nursing tanks the other day after a particularly lucrative freelancing offer came in, but it is not the same. I miss my hot clothes something awful.

5.) Last night we took Samara to a pool bar downtown for a dinner time party. We had been there BC (before child). They serve fabulous martinis in a swanky atmosphere and we were with a group of all single women and men. I wanted a martini (and had one). I wanted to stay out later than 8:30 (and didn't). As the women talked sex and cute boys, I had nothing to add. Then I spilled tomato sauce on my top, tried to wet it down and ended up with a spot on my breast that looked like I lactated. Sexy, eh?

Pleae don't call DSS on me. The truth is, one grin from Miss S makes me forget it all. One 26.5" bundle of pure love and adoration makes me feel more special than three martinis and a pair of beer goggles ever did. So, I will try not to miss the old life too much. After all, I will have all the alone time I want when she leaves for college.

1 comment:

Mackenzie said...

what does it mean to call "D.S.S" on someone? I want to know, so I can call it on you :)