The last days of pregnancy, you think a lot about alcohol. Or I do, at least. Maybe this makes me a bad mommy-to-be: I should be concentrating on folding and re-folding five dozen white onesies, highlighting pertinent chapters of “Baby Wise,” roughing up my nipples for the looming torture of breast-feeding.

But here it is: for ten months, I’ve been allowed nothing more than a glass of wine. A sip or two more and I really feel it which means baby girl feels it which means I’m inebriating my fetus and already a VERY BAD MOTHER.

No sharing a bottle of Nero d’Avola at one of “Max’s” cozy terrace tables on Avenue B, no wine pairings in the velvet, plush confines of the “Daniel” lounge, no absurdly large vodka martinis (straight up, slightly dirty, 3 olives) at the peach and honey-hued bar of the “Four Seasons.” Liquor is certainly out of the question. That means tequila nights on the patio of Dos Caminos/SoHo–knocking back frozen prickly pear margaritas (with salt) like they’re Coke Icees –are absolutely taboo. The commotion and exhaust and crazies of West Broadway that I’ve come to love are also seen as “bad for the baby” and so I have to find a new Thursday night joint.
 
So you see, I miss the scenarios. I miss everything that took place around the alcohol.  As a writer, I’m a big one for setting the scene. It’s like you never really buy a dress or a pair of heels strictly because they’re beautiful. You purchase something with a situation or a setting in mind–a DKNY maxi dress for shopping at the Union Square Farmer’s Market and then brunch in the East Village, a Calypso shift for a barbecue in Sag Harbor, a pair of DVF bejeweled cork wedges for dinner on the terrace of Morandi (in New York) or Bottega Café (in Birmingham). You’re buying–or sipping–a dream.

There’s the past that I long for and then, also, the future that might not be possible with a baby. I fantasize about limoncello champagne cocktails (lounging on the patio of Le Sireneuse, watching the sun dip into the Mediterranean blue), a demi-bouteille of un-oaked Chardonnay (reading an old script by the Shutters pool in Santa Monica) and a frothy, whipped coconut-something-or-other made with Bahamian rum (running my toes through the pink sand of Harbour Island).

Tick tock, tick tock… sobriety until baby girl arrives… My alcohol daydreams are a coping mechanism, an escape to an indulgent, carefree time when my only responsibility was to myself and my next adventure. And if I chose to be irresponsible? I woke up with a killer hang-over–and the resolve to get my career on track, find the right guy, settle down, have a baby.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 17th, 2009 at 8:10 am and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.