Dana and I were out at a farmers market this morning when a woman nearby answered her cell phone and said, "Happy Drinkers Day!" Two years ago, that was us.
Before the pregnancy, before the baby, before the rigid scheduling brought on by nap times and bed times and before that sad fact that we simply can't find a babysitter who doesn't charge $98 an hour and insists on medicine cabinet priviledges, this used to be our holiday. We'd eat corned beef and cabbage. I'd suck down Guinness while Dana pretended to enjoy herself. A great time was had by all.
Now, however, it's a different story. Emmeline is sleeping in her room. Dana is finishing some work, and I am dreaming of a cool pint of Guiness. So if, like us, you're lame enough to be home. this. instant. instead of out drowning your uvula (no, silly, higher) in Guinness, please enjoy this inaugural rendition of the St. Patrick Days blues -- in which I drive the fun out of Ireland.
5pm: Emmeline wakes up. Dana wakes up from nap. Change Emme. Feed Emme. Start dinner.
6pm: Finish Guiness beef stew. Put in oven. Finish Guinness used for said stew.
6:30pm: Bed time routine. Make bottle. Open more Guinness.
7pm: Emme goes to bed. Neighbor in the flat above us begins screaming, "Yeahhhh Boy!!!" (Our landlord lives above us; otherwise we'd beat the crap out of the ceiling.)
7:10pm: Dana sits on couch to finish work. I sit at computer -- writing this and thinking of Guinness. The distant sound of revelry from North Beach bars can be heard. Upstairs landlord neighbor shouts, again, "Yeahhh something!"
7:27pm: Me: "Is the stew ready?" Dana: "No baby. It'll be another hour." Me: "An hour?! Ohhhh." Dana goes back to work.
7:37pm: We hear a noise. "Oh, no - she's coughing," Dana says. I go in to check. Emme has her lovey bear, and I linger a moment at the crib, watching as her chest rises and falls in the soft light. I touch her cheek and exit softly, trying to remember I'm supposed to be annoyed at missing the festivities but smiling quietly to myself instead.
7:53pm: Just received batch of photos from a friend, who came over on New Year's Eve. The New Year's Eve party caption says: "Out until 7 pm!" Us parents; our holidays have taken a decided turn for the worse.
8:10pm: Put water on stove to boil for potatoes. Watch pot. It boils! Potatoes in, and then read this story from Drudgereport. Ew.
8:30pm: Turn on TV. Nothing. Play Internet poker. Lose. Dana still working. Stew smells freaking good. Neighbor is stomping around.
8:55pm: Stew is ready! But a few Guinnesses on an empty stomach has left me feeling, well ...
9:50pm: Oh. dear. god. A full bowl of rich stew on an empty stomach is not a good idea. The Guinness don't help. We try to watch a movie, but I slump on the couch, begging for Dana to rub my head. "I don't feel so good," I tell her. "Some holiday," she says. But I just sit there, feeling her hands on my head and feeling her warmth beside me, and I begin to realize she's onto something. Some holiday indeed. I'm going to bed.
