Vodka Babas

There are some things that change when you have a kid. No matter how much you still "want to be you," you are no longer your own. Your body and life and controlled by people much smaller in size than yourself, but much bigger in power and will.

If not careful, the short people will control when and where you eat, if you will ever sleep alone with your spouse in your own bed, whether you get any work done, laundry done, take a shower, etc.

Not that the short people that live with me have any control over my life, but I'm just saying...

Nick and I have recently taken up bartending at home. I don't want you to believe that the CEO Midgets of Liskey Manor have caused us to drink excessively or anything, but they sure have taught me to DRINK FAST.

Anyway, we were inspired after we bought a cheap margarita mix at Meijer, only to be hung over the next day. This hangover was not alcohol induced, but rather a bad mix of artificial lime flavoring and high fructose corn syrup.

I was on a mission. I'm sure Nick would have been more excited if I was on a mission to do the 12 loads of dirty laundry we hve or to clean the fridge. There was no time for that: the perfect margarita was waiting to be made, from as close as scratch as possible.

I stayed on Google and close the the phone. Nick was at the store for what seemed like hours: a bag of baby limes, one large bottle of non-yellow tequila and triple sec. Triple Sec was $30 - what? I paniced. This was a crucial part of the recipe (we thought) but spending that much seemed irresponsible and would better be used in Owen's college fund. Nick trusted his instincts and went to the liquor store and got a small bottle for $3 instead.

There was so much prep work: cutting and squeezing limes, boiling sugar and water, crushing ice, making fresh salsa and gucacamole. It was all coming together so nicely, as it should since we were putting in more time and effort that we put in any meal we make these days. Now, just to add the tequila.

The directions said to pour 2 shots. We froze.

I had 2 shot glasses at one point in my life. It was 2001 and I was studying in Jerusalem and brought home a set of mugs and saucers made from unbreakable Jerusalem crystal. Shot glasses were only a few sheckels after all the money I'd spent there, so I bought 2. They fell off a shelf when we lived in L.A. and shattered on the floor. Unbreakables broken.

We searched in our crowded cabinets and found nothing. How many ounces are in a shot anyway? We asked Google and decided crisis averted; we'll just measure them out ourselves. But, we couldn't find anything with ounces written on it. My math is poor, I failed quantities and conversions in school. My heart was beating too fast to Google "conversion chart" and figure out which one I needed, anyway.

Just then I realized my whole world has been controlled by ounces and calories for over 2 years - how do I normally measure my ounces? After a moment of relieved joy that I had actually forgotten about all of Ella's feeding problems and syringes for 5 minutes, I knew what to do.

I pulled the water-spotted Medela breast milk bottle from the drawer, filled the line up to 2 ounces and showed Nick: Tequila Baba.

We laughed at how different our life was with kids and how we would have totally made fun of ANYONE WHO USED BABAS TO MEASURE ALCOHOL AND ANYONE WHO SAID BABA INSTEAD OF BOTTLE WITHOUT THEIR KIDS IN THE ROOM in our former kidless lives. Its crazy, but our kid-full lives are so much more exciting that the former: full of dancing, full of laughter, full of lots more shit.

One day they will be gone and there won't be a baba to use for a shot glass. We won't trip on toys in the middle of the night and our house will be quieter and full of other good things, like lots of wine and expensive lamps that won't be knocked down with baseballs and a TV sans frosting hand prints. Our time will be our own and our bed will be our own too. Even so, seems like no matter how full of nice, expensive and pretty things my life becomes, it will always be fuller because of the no-longer-so-short people who used to scribble on my walls and snot on my sweaters.

But until that day comes, please learn to wipe your own butt and sleep in your own bed, sweetie pie.