With each pre-baby project we finish, I lose one more distraction to keep me from obsessing about the impending obliteration of my bits and that whole feeding-and-care-of-your-killer-newborn-overlord thing. Not that I obsess. Ever. That’s totally not my personality.
*pauses to adjust welding goggles hanging from life-sized cardboard cutout of NPH*
But I’d be lying if I denied that I’d been fretting about how Mothersucking Boob Time was going to impact my hallowed (and LONG overdue) Motherfucking Booze Time. But then?
Oh Interwebz…it was magical. All those romantical scenes in movies and on tv where wondrous moments occur to the swelling of stringed instruments, soft lighting, and Barbara Walters filters? Booshit. This was more beautiful than anything Hollywood could dream up.
There we were, trapped in Baby Surplus Store Hell, bowed under unforgiving fluorescent lights at least twenty feet above our heads, scouring the sea of breast pump replacement parts. I’d all but given up hope on finding the right connector and heaved a giant sigh of frustration. The rush of wind caused a box immediately above the shelf I had just torn apart to dance upon it’s metal hook, begging me to pay it attention.
It seemed to be illuminated from within – like a magical unicorn horn.
A choir of angels descended from the fluorescent light-filled rafters and proceeded to dance the Humpty Hump in exultation of the momentous occasion.
Horns and bells echoed through the linoleum covered aisles.
Babies wept. (But that probably happens a lot in Babies R Us. Skip that one.)
….and then I knew that everything would be alright with the world.
And there was much rejoicing.
Now I gotta run – I need to research the hospital’s policy on kegs – STAT.