Two Weeks' Notice

My liver has officially put in for disability benefits and is calling it quits. Most likely, this is not because it's put in a lot of work lately, with what it's required to do filtering out the occasional glass of wine or bag of Milanos. (Did I say bag? I meant, um, "serving size"). I'm pretty sure, though, that after all the time and effort and damage exerted during my younger years, poor old Bessie has had enough. Or, at least, she's looking to move into the body of someone without two small children, someone who could handle a shot of booze if there were an active champagne cork aimed at her head, unlike yours truly.

Let's be honest, though...like this is a HUGE surprise. You hear it from anybody who's had kids and is not currently sporting an arrest record or hanging with Britney Spears: once those charming spawn come hither, you can kiss your old life goodbye. Hell, once the line on the test stick turns pink, that's your Bat-signal to put on your big girl panties and grow up. (Your mate, however, is still allowed a probationary drinking period and can reap the benefits of having a designated driver for nine months straight, given his ability to maintain a constant flow of ice cream in your house).

In truth, I love my kids to pieces. My husband does, too. But if you had sat us down three years ago and presented us with a picture of our lives today, we would have laughed heartily before inviting you to come along to Happy Hour for cocktails and free jalapeno poppers. Life was different then, you see. We spent a lot of time at the bar. We met in a bar. We expected a certain amount of upheaval after having kids, but it was always assumed that our Sid and Nancy alter-egos would return once we got a handle on the whole "baby" thing. (Mind you, this idea was hatched before Irish Twin #2 showed up on the scene.) So much for best-laid plans, eh? (Bada-bum-bum-bum).

Most of our recent attempts at not being lame have proven fruitless debacles. Take, for instance, one weekend recently when my "fun cousin" was visiting and we were meeting up with friends in the city. Everyone was feeling great, plus, we had an actual babysitter that didn't show any outward signs of bipolar disorder. All the ingredients for a good time, right? Naturally, we all ended up stinking drunk with a $500 bar tab and a Hall Of Fame hangover that made me want to peel the scalp off my head if only it would have dulled the throbbing pain. Our boys were gracious enough, however, to wake us for the 6AM shows on Nickelodeon lest we miss the fun of Blue's Clues (except this particular morning Blue had developed a freaky doppelganger since my eyes were unable to focus as they pulsed out of their sockets and onto the area rug). My husband came through like a champ, however, getting up right away and giving the baby his bottle. That morning, I came to see him with even more respect and almost felt sorry for my friends who complained that their husbands were not quite as "with it" as mine....that is, until I found that he had snuck off, baby in swing, and was curled up in a cozy ball sleeping on the kitchen floor. Face-down. I wish I were kidding.

I've decided, though, that being a total pansy is a blessing in disguise. It's not like any of us old married farts are out to flirt anymore, and the binge-drink aftermath is almost as bad as being in labor: it's painful, you want to throw up the whole time and it lasts for HOURS. And then, just when you're certain you can't take any more and swear up and down your pledge to recoil in the face of liquor from here on in....somebody poops. A lot. And it will be green. And assuming your husband is not the culprit, you will finally resolve that it's just way too much work to have that kind of fun anymore when there are small people depending on you. And you may find that actually, it's okay to move on and find new ways of amusing yourself. I certainly have. My liver will thank me, once it returns.