Your child is a beacon of holiness hand-delivered to you by a choir of little, chubby, creeplily winged babies. As they hand over your own little cherub, those flying miniature Michelins sing songs filled with such beauty, such melody, your heart instantly fills with what can only be described as ethereal love.
That’s why I can never ever go out without my baby.
Each time I put on that sexy red number I can finally fit into after having my baby four months ago, I recreate my own Reverend Dimmsdale situation. I just want to hide into the woods and shout, “Pearl is mine! She’s my baby!” So, I avoid it. I stay home and watch her.
No babysitter is ready to handle this four-month old. She’s her own fountain of spit-up and poop. How would I take it if she got a diaper rash because of some inexperienced babysitter? No one knows how the only way to get her to sleep is to sing Billy Joel’s “Lullabye” in the perfect key of G major. No one understands that you have to hold her hand while she rests on your chest or else she grabs you, worried that you’ll run away. No babysitter could possibly do the cutie-booty dance with the perfect hip-thrusts to get her to wiggle her toots out. Nope, I’m staying in.
Who cares if she claims to have 30 years of experience and I’ve checked all of her references. She claims to be CPR certified, but how can you really tell? She says she raised five children, all of whom grew into semi-stable adults. Yes, you know this to be a fact, and yes you know her personally. Fine. She’s my mom. I just don’t want to leave my baby.
Apparently, I’m stifling my child and ignoring my husband by refusing to go out. The voices begin again:
“You need to keep up the romance in your relationship.” “A happy mom is a happy baby. Live a little!” “You have to give your baby some time with someone else.”
Then, the Reverend Dimssdale begins again. How could I ignore my relationship? Isn’t the love between my husband and I just as important to our family? He’s such an amazing husband and father. The least I could do is go out on a date with him. After all, we know she’s in great hands.
Fine, you’ve convinced me. I put on the red dress and the heels. Too soon for the heels. Flats it is. We go out to an amazing Brazilian steakhouse. My husband wears the button-up I love. We are ready to have a romantic night, just the two of us.
“What do you mean you left your four-month old at home while you hussy it up with some guy?” “What kind of selfish mother are you?”
I’ve turned my home into a restaurant called Hester’s. Now, we can suffocate our child with love and simultanously enjoy a nice filet mignon.