Once upon a time, Saturday night consisted of two young, carefree people working until 10:00 or later, then changing clothes and meeting up with each other, going out with a group of friends, getting a decent buzz, and then going home to have really great -- you know, my parents have been known to read this on occasion. Suffice to say, Saturday nights were late late late and lots of fun. Said couple usually managed to pull it together for church the next morning, too.
Fast forward a few years. Saturday night now means dragging our feet as we pack up Ghoulie for a super-hot grocery shopping date. Between our house and store lies the very hip South Side, a long street lined with clubs, bars, and trendy little shops, where the city's young, childless people spend their Saturday nights. Just in case we forget how we used to spend our weekends. We cruise by with our screaming, carseat-hating baby, too tired from the past week to even know whether we look good. (Answer: We don't.) After walking around the grocery store in a daze for an hour or more, we make our way home, put the groceries in all the wrong cabinets, and watch TV for 1/2 an hour before going to bed.
And sometimes, on very special Saturdays nights like last night, we even lock the keys in the car.
Haven't quite determined whose fault that was yet, despite a long discussion about it as we waited for AAA. I had set my purse, keys and all, on the backseat so that I could transfer Ghoulie from her car seat to her sling. As I got her situated, I asked my hot date, "Could you just grab the burp cloth?" So he did. Thoughtful guy that he is, he even got the binky, too. Then he shut the door.
When the AAA guy arrived, he echoed our sentiments: "At least ya didn't shut the baby in the car."
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4 comments:
For weeks like this, I tend to blame Mercury Retrograde. Blaming a planet makes it easier to kvetch about it without biting off anyone's head, which often look quite tasty in times like these.
Totally his fault. LOL I always blame the hubby no matter what :)
My worst fear is locking my kid in the car. As long as you don't do that, you're OK.
I don't know how you manage to drag your butt to the store in the evening. I am ususally passed out on the couch by then. Kids running with scissors and playing with matches...
Well, the only way we found the motivation to drag ourselves to the store was when we came to terms with the fact that Triscuits don't really count as dinner. At least not without dip.
(Hmn, does that meet the standards of the "What to Expect the First Year" breastfeeding diet?)
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