The phone rings at 2:30. It’s Steph.
“Hello,” she breathes sexily. “I’ve got gin.”
My stomach sinks. Bad enough I’ve been sadly realizing I’m going to do what’s best for The Boy and stay home this afternoon, thereby ditching my tentative afternoon plans with her. Worse still that I haven’t located her phone number, leaving her to call me to find this out. Now apparently in the absence of hearing from me she has changed the plan from roadtrip / shopping trip to a G & T afternoon at her place (an upgrade, to my way of thinking). Damn. I am a shit.
She gets as far as asking if I’ll pick up the tonic when I drop the bomb. I’m staying home. Briefly, visions shimmer before my eyes of driving out there anyway, enjoying myself, letting my napless kids run around, throwing Nels down in the crib to sleep, or not, having a few smokes in the sun with my dear gal pal, and coming back home to cook barbecue with a nice little buzz on. But I think of Nels at the beach this morning: sleeping on my chest, hot, worn out, and underfed. It ain’t right.
So instead I will stay home, put the kids down for their naps, wash dishes, give the carseats a deep clean (the florae and fauna that will develop in these things boggles the mind), and in general do all that Mom stuff that keeps everyone fed, clean, and comfortable.
Leaving my friend stranded at home with her napping child. Friendless and, apparently, mixerless.
I am a shit.