John is our resident brew master and had made a honey mead that was quite good; very sweet, very smooth and very strong. Bill picked up a very expensive bottle of tequila that I refused to even look at straight on. And I? I made hot buttered rum. DAMN that stuff is good. I didn’t even have a full mug but still felt happy and mellow; life was spiffy. I made one for my sis, who is also nursing and we wondered aloud how quickly this stuff would make it into our breastmilk. That’s when Dr. Jack, MD called.
Dr. Jack, MD is our buddy who has a family practice out in the sticks. He’s a research whore and is pretty laid back about meds and treatments and is about as natural as one can get with that much schooling under his belt. We don’t always call him Dr. Jack, MD, but when we do we like to use our announcer voice, imagining he has his own show like House . Dr. Jack, MD rocks and was calling to join the party. Naturally, someone asked him how long it takes for alcohol to make it into breastmilk and without skipping a beat he announced, “32 minutes!” Really? “I have no idea! But since I’m the well respected Dr. Jack, MD you will unquestionable accept it as the gospel truth and think me brilliant for all I say!”
Ok, so he didn’t really say that. At least, if he did, I didn’t hear it as I wasn’t on the phone at the time. But he said something to that effect ‘cause he’s a silly silly man. Then he decided to fine tune it a bit, “What kind of alcohol are we talking about here?” Rum. 40% alcohol by volume. “AH! I revise my statement: 28 minutes!” he announced in his super sexy, yet sardonic and powerful Dr. Jack, MD TV voice. We all appropriately bowed down and whispered his name in awe. He’s that good.
Then we ate more chocolate and my husband crawled under the stairs to
Where were the children, you ask? There was lots of running and jumping and laughing and dancing and fan gazing and playing with potentially breakable objects. Lily had dropped off to sleep quickly and quietly around 8:30 in our friend’s big comfy bed while Anya had remained WIDE awake and watchful. I guess she was worried she’d have to be the designated driver and didn’t want to fall asleep on the job. Nichole (about four months old) had been bound and stuck in front of a TV showing nothing but static, an excellent poor mans white noise machine.
When midnight rolled around Mark and I ushered in the New Year with a kiss and then rained kisses down on our little babe. She giggled and kissed back in her awkward baby way. We were in our own beds by 1am.
It actually was one of our nicer new years I’ve had. We didn’t drink enough for hang-overs and (so far as we know) nobody got killed. It was a damn fine year and I’m looking forward to the new one.
How did you celebrate?
*DISCLAIMER: I’m not much of a drinker, what with being pregnant or nursing for the last three years. Even before babies I rarely drank and almost never to excess. As the mother of two, I am learning the value of a good drink every once in a while. I’m wound so damn tight sometimes that I figure the impact of a drink on Anya, after getting processed through my body and into my breastmilk is probably less harmful than an insane, stressed out mama. I still don’t have a drink often and never to drunk but when I do imbibe a little, let’s just say it’s usually a very good idea.
