I haven't written in a long time. This isn't because I haven't had anything interesting to say. In my opinion I've had TONS of fantastic stories to tell you. However I've been in self-imposed exile because I swore I wouldn't become one of those parents who can't talk about ANYthing except the latest adorable thing their offspring did. And frankly there is nothing in my life remotely as interesting as the consistency and regularity of my daughter's bowel movements. I am just barely cognizant enough to understand you may not agree with this.
So, to amend my earlier statement, I could have written TONS of stories you would have found interesting - unless you happen to not be me.
I've managed to extrapolate, however, a few random thoughts that, while mostly still linked in some way to my daughter, are not actual "this one time, my daughter, she did the most ADORABLE thing," stories so I don't think they count. However if you're not a parent or me, I warn you the following column (and probably all subsequent columns for the next 16 years or so) may not be of particular interest.
"B-E-D-T-I-M-E!"
Every night at 8pm, my father would call these letters out with undisguised glee. As a kid, I was completely baffled by this. I recognized the emotion - joy akin to what I felt the night before we were going to Disneyland - but I absolutely could not marry it to the reality of "bedtime," which was, in a kid's mind, the WORST word in the world. "Bedtime" is ritualistically followed by begging, pleading, resorting to simple tricks of bathroom and drink requests, ANYthing to prolong the inevitable necessity of lying flat in our beds with no books, no TV, no stimulus and the order to fall asleep.
How could anyone be so happy about the most miserable part of the day (assuming no doctor visits)? I just didn't get it.
But now? Oh, do I get it.
Every morning brings with it the joy of seeing my daughter again after a long night of separation. As the day wears on, the joy wears off, in equal relation to the crankiness that grows as bedtime approaches. By the end of the day the entire family is worn down to a nub, and my husband and I watch the clock's slow countdown to our daughter's bedtime with a desperate eye. At a quarter to eight we turn to our daughter and announce, "Bedtime!" with very little ability (or attempts) to cover up our eagerness to get her into bed. I don't spell it out, but I am known to sing, "It's the most won-der-ful tiiiime of the daaaaaay," as I carry her to bed.
When she's older I'll probably just hum it.
VIVA LAS VEGAS - SERIOUSLY
I have never been a huge fan of Las Vegas. I thought it was titillating when I was 21 and went with my boyfriend and another couple during college. We were so poor it was pronounced "poh." We shared a hotel room that cost about $45 a night, and when they tried to charge us $55 we staged a massive retaliation campaign consisting of us all whispering angrily in the lobby and then shoving forward the largest and most well-spoken of us to argue the bill. I think what impressed us most about the entire weekend was the free drinks on the casino floor, and they were shitty drinks at a shitty casino.
When I was in my early 30's and married and childless Vegas held even less appeal. Having finally paid off all my debt, I had developed a medically-confirmed allergy to gambling, and I generally preferred to get drunk somewhere a little less seizure-inducing. I much prefer a vacation that introduces me to new cultures, new ways of looking at the world, potentially the opportunity to get mud in my underwear. My feeling is that I have a very limited number of vacations in my lifetime, and certainly a limited budget to spend on them. I want to make sure I experience as much of the world as possible given those two limitations. So Vegas, a place I've already been and didn't really "get," was pretty much off the list.
But then my best friend Katy, for reasons I cannot mention in this column because she still reads it occasionally and owns a gun, managed to secure a free room, dinner and show in Las Vegas for Fourth of July weekend. For this sort of bargain I might consider vacationing in one of the states whose name begins with a K. Probably not, but maybe. Plus, it was my turn for a baby-free vacation. Tom got one when I went to New York for a week, and another when he went to a business conference in California, which I still totally think counts because most geek-related conferences have beer running from the water fountains. If you're drunk, it's not work.
I boarded the plane to Vegas with a feeling of "Oh, well, if nothing else I'll get some extra sleep." Yeah, who goes to Vegas hoping for sleep? Me. But on this trip, my eyes were opened wide to the benefits of Las Vegas. Because this was the first time I was experiencing it since becoming a parent.
When you have kids you have an extremely limited amount of time to cut loose, and even when you do cut loose, you are still half-listening for a 2-foot-person's unrelenting attempts to commit suicide. You cannot let your guard down for a second, even when they are sleeping or at someone else's house. You are always responsible, always alert, and always guilty if you so much as have half a glass of wine, definitely if you accidentally polish off the whole bottle which seems to happen fairly often these days.
In Vegas, time has no meaning, drinks are free-flowing, nobody knows you and everybody is there to have a good time. It is the absolute best way to cram as many sins into a finite amount of time. It is, really, the most efficient vacation one can take, and when it comes to a full-time working mother, efficiency is not THE word, it is the ONLY word. I crammed a year and a half of irresponsibility (stopping short of anything illegal... mostly) into 3 days. It was wonderful. It was liberating. It was just a little bit nauseating but not nearly as bad as being pregnant.
Fuck culture. I'm going back to Vegas, baby.
