Chronicling a bottle of wine

Last Friday, John and I found ourselves with nothing to do (well, besides attend to the every need of a two month old baby). We were wandering around the grocery store enjoying each other's company and we ended up in the wine and beer section. It was such a flashback to the pre-Zoey days that I could not help but feel a little wistful. I am loving mommyhood these days, but I am not quite to the place where you can't remember what your life was like before the baby came along. I remember the excitement of Friday evening; it used to be my favorite time of the week. I loved the idea of knowing that you were going to get to sleep in the next day and the thought of two whole sweet days of weekend ahead of you. Fridays nights used to consist of dinner out, a movie at home, and perhaps a roll in the sheets (wink, wink). It was definitely the most relaxing time of the week. I miss the spontaneity of my former life. These days even sex is planned way in advance. For example, Monday was John's birthday, and I planned to drop Zoey off with the in-laws before he got home so I could seduce him as soon as he walked through the door. I wish I could say that it was because I just can't keep my hands off him, but, honestly, it was because Zoey eats every three hours, so every minute counts. Anyway, I didn't get her off before he got home, so I had to move to plan B: Go to dinner and then come home for the event. We decided to go to Half Price Books after dinner, which cut our time even more. On the way home our conversation went something like this:
Me: We don't have very long until we have to go get her.
John: Do you want to go get her now?
Me: Well, if we get her now, we won't be able to...you know.
John: Well, we could do it after she goes to bed.
Me: True, but she'll be in the bedroom.
John: We always have the living room.
Please keep in mind that none of this conversation could be considered foreplay. All of this was said in a completely serious, thoughtful tone. We were really trying to make a plan. Very sexy, I know. Anyways, I digress.
In the past when we have found ourselves in the wine and beer section on a Friday night, we would each indulge in our beverage of choice. We decided to do the same this particular Friday. All the way home I anticipated my glass of Beringer that I was going to enjoy. We got home and I stuck the bottle in the fridge and attended to the babe while John made dinner. I poured my glass when dinner was ready, but as ususal, Zoey decided to get fussy while we tried to eat, so my glass got a bit warm. I am not sure that wine tastes as good when it is served with a side of reality anyways.
The second glass came a couple of days later. I wanted to see how long I could make the bottle last, but like ice cream, when it is in the fridge I just can't stop thinking about it. I debated all evening about whether I should enjoy a glass. As I closed the door after putting the pacifier back in Zoey's mouth for the second or third time, I decided that I was going to have that glass of wine, because, well, I could. I am a big girl, thank you.
The third an forth glass came this evening. The third came out of desperation when John decided to watch Mr. Bean. If I am going to look at that man, I am going to need something to help me out. I am just sorry that I did not have anything stronger. The forth was the result of putting pajamas on a screaming baby, then feeding her and being spit up on three times, then putting her to bed, then tripping over John's shoes, then tripping over John's pants while putting away my clothes and the rest of Zoey's clothes while cursing John for not having done it before. He put his clothes away, but decided to leave the rest because he "didn't know where they went." After five years of marriage, that excuse doesn't fly anymore. The clincher came when I walked into the bathroom and there was an empty toilet paper roll. I should have downed the rest of the bottle, but I refrained. After all, it is much harder to get up at 3 in the morning when you are in a drunken stupor.