Yesterday we took the baby to my mom and dad's house, dragged a bin full of clothes and toys and sippy cups in and ran from the house like we had just toilet papered the trees.
We had dinner reservations. True, they were in five hours, but we were drunk on having nowhere to go and no schedule to keep.
Babies have schedules. And our childcare arrangement demands precise scheduling. A high-pressure schedule where everyone is dependant on everyone else. If I take a crap and miss my bus well that isn't good for anyone.
People with digestive disorders really shouldn't have limits placed on their shitting abilities.
So we swept out of their house like the Grinch, only we had rolled up the carpets and left the baby inside. We spent our freedom going to Ikea. We are wild people. Then we arrived early for our reservation and got drunk waiting for a table. We ate beef and talked and I didn't have to order my dinner based on what the child could eat.
I love my child. I am sure that goes without saying. But there is relief in putting that down for a minute. The pressure, the fatigue, the strain. . .Putting that down, having a drink, eating a really really delightful piece of meat was worth every penny. Thank God for grandparents.