Girls Night Out

Last Friday, I left the little angel in the loving care of her baseball-watching father and went out with the girls, wearing heels for the first time since my fifth month of pregnancy.

After dinner, a rooftop beer garden and four glasses of wine, I inhaled deeply the sweet scent of early summer, forgetting that the little angel had spent the previous afternoon at the qualifying rounds for the Fussy Baby Olypiad. After my girlfriend ordered a round of blue shots named after Mike Sweeney, a Bible-banging KC Royals baseball player, I forgot the little angel existed at all. I laughed. I slurred my words. I fell off my very sassy heels on the way to the bathroom. I smoked cigarettes with no concern for my own or anyone else's health.

And then, a few minutes after the witching hour, I remembered I am a mommy. Suddenly the dancers seemed preteenish, the balding hotties at the bar pathetic, the lead singer of the band ludicrous. What was I doing here with these madmen? Where was my baby? Fortunately for me, my girlfriends were very understanding and immediately charioted me home to my very own little palace, complete with signature balding hottie and miniature lead singer. Ah, bliss.