With two children in the double-digits, my mommy arsenal consists of merlot, shiraz, chardonnay ... oh, and vodka.
Beth Falkenstein: Does this sound familiar? You're at a function -- birthday party, open house, boutique sale -- where other moms in your social circle are likely to be. Once the preliminary greeting formalities are dispensed of a lull falls over the group. Expressions of expectant curiosity register on all the faces until someone finally says what's on everybody's mind: "Margaritas?"
That might mean you're an alcoholic. But it also might just mean you're the mother of a teenager.
I came to this realization after noticing that many recently tagged photos on my Facebook page featured me holding some sort of cocktail, coyly toasting the camera, as though saying "I defy you to make me put down this drink." I had become the Dean Martin of Facebook.
This wasn't the product of some weakness that had grown with the passing years. Seriously, the last time I tossed back Tequila Sunrises with such regularity I was wearing Jordache jeans and a tube top. It's just that while my kids were still preschoolers, no problem ever seemed like much of a ... well, problem. Hugs, a Band-Aid, a teddy bear were all the tools I needed. Oh, and baby wipes.
Now, with two children in the double-digits, my mommy arsenal consists of merlot, shiraz, chardonnay ... oh, and vodka.
I don't overindulge. I simply imbibe to the point where my kids' issues seem quaint and not the ulcer-inducing state of affairs that they really are.
My theory is that as our children get older, we can no longer magically fix them, so we magically fix ourselves. A whiskey sour can make a hickey disappear instantly. And an apple martini works wonders for curing that whining noise -- "I'm the only one without unlimited texting!" -- in our ears.
There are also benefits to the child, in that grinning stupidly at them is far less harmful than murdering them.
Obviously, this trend could get out of hand, so I've made a difficult decision that will require some willpower. From now until my daughters graduate college, I promise to stop ... posing for photos.
|Beth Falkenstein was a sitcom writer and freelance contributor to "Self," "Redbook," and "YM" magazines before taking a full-time job in her kitchen. She loves her new bosses (ages 13 and 10), and is grateful that they approve of inter-office romance, because Beth thinks her co-worker (Jim, age 45) is really hot.|