As a stay-at-home mom of a child whose only communication tool is baby babble, you tend to crave conversation. Conversation that extends beyond the response to “paper or plastic?” and “do you want sauce with that?”
In a desperate attempt to corral a group of friends on a regular basis, I suggested a Book Club. We always joke that we used to be/have fun and the fact that we committed to an organized group that would discuss literature rather than RSVP’ing to those ever popular “girls nights” solidifies the fact that we are probably lame, and definitely old. Someone brings wine. Someone brings beer. And someone brings doughnuts to soak up the alcohol so Book Club doesn’t turn into a scene from Magic Mike. We sit around talking about waxing, Miley Cyrus’ haircut and other things that are incredibly inappropriate, and occassionally illegal. Oh, and the book, we definitely (cough) talk about the book.
When it’s my turn to host I plop Rinn in his twice-recalled Bumbo seat, give him something that is relatively safe to put in his mouth and then hit the bottle. What? Of course I still use my Bumbo. It’s stamped right on the damn chair “WARNING – Prevent Falls: Never use on any elevated surface” so no, I don’t put Rinn in it on top of the refridgerator and then leave the house to run a few errands counting on the Bumbo as a reliable babysitter. Then again I am drinking, KIDDING!
My biggest fear doesn’t revolve around a skull fracture from my lack of common sense but rather that babies, Rinn in particular, are more aware of their surroundings than I give them credit for. I’m referencing those times when our discussions trail off into the areas of inappropriate and illegal that I mentioned earlier. Sure he looks completely enraptured with shoving a plastic pig into his mouth but maybe he’s incredibly cunning and intently listening to every word, the proverbial fly on the wall so to speak, or in this case, Bumbo seat. We will be having an argument some 16 years down the road about whether or not he can use the car to take some tramp to Culver’s for a milkshake and before I can give him my definitive “NO”, he will look at me in an eerie and allknowing manner and mouth the words “Book Club.” To which I will have no choice but to bow my head in shame and hand him the keys.
I’m already going to have a lot to answer to if remnants of my former blog somehow surface; so in an effort to prevent any additional blackmail by a 16-year-old of my own creation, I have thought about replacing his bedroom door with one that locks from the outside and stashing him there while we gossip more than a copy of US Weekly. My parents did it to me for a number of years because at 5 years old, I had the habit of getting up in the middle of the night and wandering the neighborhood with the family labrador in tow. But I’m still not sure I’m left entirely undamaged from being imprisoned against my will for all those years so…
Does anyone know where to buy baby earmuffs?
Rinn starting his own book club.
I told him he has to wait until he's at least 12 before he can serve up wine spritzers at his meetings.