BABY,
MIX ME A DRINK:
A PROPOSAL BY
LISA BROWN.
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I am not a lush. One drink gets me into an uncharacteristically friendly state, the second causes me to give away my possessions (this according to my husband, who is resigned to the inevitable disappearance of books and CDs after every one of our cocktail parties), and the third (and there rarely is a third) tucks me, cozily spinning, into bed. But the thought of going through nine months of mandatory sobriety filled me with dread. OK, so I knew that a sip of wine or two wouldn't kill me or my incipient fetus, and you betcha that I had made sure of this before the deed was done. But once I had actually become pregnant, I didn't care about that sip of wine. What I wanted was a martini—ice-cold vodka, a whisper of vermouth, a firm green olive, one of those with a cute little pimiento in its belly. I craved it.
Luckily for little junior, the smell made me sick.
Oh, but I missed it. That comforting feel of a cocktail glass in my hand, an oh-so-sophisticated prop, a numbing lubricant for those awkward social situations. You just can't wave around a plastic cup of apple juice with the same savoir-faire. At my 10-year college reunion I was four months pregnant, a stone-cold-sober killjoy in too-tight jeans. "Hi, it's Lisa Brown, remember me? By the way, I didn't get fat, I'm pregnant. See? It's a maternity blouse. If I were just fat, I wouldn't be wearing a maternity blouse, now would I? You're a lawyer? How nice."
Six months pregnant found me presiding over a wine-tasting party. A wine-writer friend and his sommelier girlfriend had brought over bottles and bottles of the most expensive, delicious, and incredibly, well, French wine that they had, for some inexplicable reason, too much of. So there I was, uncomfortably shifting in my chair, a grimly sober hostess, as I watched my guests get rosy, then tipsy, then sloppy, then drunk. I hated my friends, because they could drink. I hated my pregnancy, because I couldn't. I tried to pull myself together and ignore my happy pals, concentrating instead on a spot on the tablecloth. A spot that was, unfortunately, made of red wine. A spot that was slowly spreading, inching toward my empty glass. I asked everyone to leave.
Eight months pregnant and big as a house at my mother-in-law's retirement party, I found myself trapped in line for the ladies' room. "How far along are you?" asked a twinkly woman ahead of me. "Oh, I'm not pregnant," I calmly replied.
This is what happens when I am sober. And this is why my son needs to learn a few things about keeping his mama in her cups.
Now, I keep hearing people complain that, in our age of anxiety and overanalysis, parents' lives increasingly revolve around their children, but I'm planning to change all that. I'd like to take us back to an era when children were actually produced out of the need for an extra pair of helping hands around the house. Those little angels performed all sorts of unskilled menial labors with light hearts and no salary. And why not? I completely and unabashedly blame my baby for my nine-plus months of excruciating teetotalism, not to mention the accompanying physical discomfort and irrational crying jags. Clearly, some kind of payback is in order.
It wouldn't be so difficult. Already I have this 2-year-old son with a mommy complex in a big way—he seems to derive all sorts of comfort and sustenance from my very presence—and I plan to fully exploit this. I have role models; I was always quite taken with the bit in the movie Auntie Mame where Rosalind Russell's tiny ward assembles a morning martini for a prim and proper banker. "Auntie Mame says that olives take up so much room in such a little glass."
So I really don't see any true impediment to my plan. I'm a reasonable person; I would never force my child to take on something he couldn't handle. Let's work it out logically:
1. Can he recognize colors? We are working on this. Surely he soon will be able to distinguish brown from red, and if he can do that, he will be able to tell the bourbon from the Campari.
2. How about shapes? Absolutely. I mean, he can tell the difference between a rectangle and a circle, thus he must be able to tell a highball glass from, say, a snifter.
3. Can he lift a small bottle? Well, yes! He does that all the time! Super, I'll make sure we have those little airplane liquor bottles on hand. They seem like a manageable size for his little paws. I think they even come in plastic.
4. Can he shake things? Yup, he's aces with a rattle. A martini shaker certainly seems like a natural progression.
5. And as for olives, well, they're just like marbles. Kids love marbles.
You see? It can be done.
And there is so much more that babies could be good for. In the two years I've known him, I've learned that my son is easily tricked and possesses only the most rudimentary understanding of unions and child-labor laws. Therefore, every milestone becomes an opportunity. If he can walk to the park, he can most certainly walk to the grocery store or the bank. Brushing his teeth requires the exact same skill set as scrubbing bathroom tiles. He loves to play with his Tonka truck—there's got to be something useful in that. So, parents, relax, put your feet up, and perhaps invest in a small, silver bell. The possibilities are endless.
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The possibilities begin with Baby, Mix Me a Drink and Baby, Make Me Breakfast, Lisa Brown's first two baby-improvement books. They're out now from McSweeney's, and available in a money-saving bundle along with some excellent-looking Baby, Be of Use coasters. Get the set to ensure a versatile infancy for your newborn!
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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Baby, Mix Me a Drink: A Proposal by Lisa Brown
Models of Conflict in Literature, Which I Think Justify My Beeping the Horn While Driving, Even If My Girlfriend Thinks Not By Justin Kahn
In-Progress Ideas for New Yorker Cartoons By Scott Underwood
Taking My Personal Demons Out to Lunch at the Olive Garden By Andy Braaksma
Traveling Europe in Style With Auckland Dingiroo, Dark-Age Tourist and Critic of Food and Drink By John Hallmann
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