Read Online How to Party With an Infant by Kaui Hart Hemmings - Free Book Online

slices on top. She ate all of it. I can’t tell you how proud I feel when my child eats everything I put in front of her, when I can sit down with my baby and talk and sip wine at a leisurely pace and not have to scream: “Eat!”
    These are my accomplishments.

Renee—that’s great you have foreign friends; however, the issue is your proposal that calling the police is an appropriate response. So your kid gets pushed and the solution is the family goes to immigration jail?
—Beth Nelson
Has your husband ever asked you to use your breast pump just for fun? Like, in a foreplay kind of way? I wasn’t sure how to respond to this and pretended like I had “bowel issues,” but I don’t know how long I can keep using this excuse. Is this a thing guys like or . . .
—Anonymous, please reply to general forum
Now that’s special. Never got that request before! There’s a dairy farm in Vallejo if he wants to check it out and get his milking fix. It’s organic!
—A.L., West Portal

Does your husband cook? How do you divvy up the responsibilities?
    Way to rub it in my face, you sick, kitten-heel-wearing bitches. The only thing your husbands cook is probably the books. I bet you complain he doesn’t do enough. He doesn’t pick up the kids. They’re driving you crazy. You’re trying to post something about your miracle cleanse and they’re fighting with one another over the iPad again. You need to post about the cleanse this minute and how you know exactly what you’re putting into your body and you’re so happy and healthy! You need to Instagram your body Before and After! You need help from your husband—he works too much, he doesn’t treat you the way you should be treated. He didn’t notice your highlights. He didn’t notice your pedicure. You have eggplant toes, god damn it! The It color!
    *  *  *
    So, I’m a little off this week. The Big Day is three weeks away, same time this book’s due, and I’m anxious and depressed. Annie is adamant that I don’t go, but I can’t help but want to. I want to see what he’s choosing. I want to see this life I’m somehow a part of.
    Today I browsed through Bobby’s registry, scanning for appropriate gifts—carafes of shit or a set of silverware—the latter already purchased by the Mittwegs. How greedy to ask for a punch bowl when he has a toddler! He should register for preschool tuition or princess dresses. He should register for wine and therapy for the mother of his child.
    I’m at my desk, which is in the living room. Ellie is banging on her little piano, which isn’t helping my hangover. I swear motherhood leads to alcoholism. I never used to drink like this.
    Last night, Annie, Georgia, Barrett, and I confessed we had a drink every night of the week. I don’t think it’s that untypical for women tohave a couple glasses of wine with dinner every night, but I guess it was our seemingly dire need for it that was interesting.
    We were at Barrett’s house, sitting in her living room, drinking wine, civilly.
    “After a day it just sounds so good,” she said.
    “And it makes it seem like your child is behaving better,” I said. “You’re charmed versus pissed.”
    “It’s sort of like an award at the end of the day,” Annie said. “Like, good job. You can clock out and relax now.”
    “Except you can’t,” Barrett said. “It’s like the Hotel California.” We continued our conversation, moving on to margaritas and tequila. I stayed with wine. Doesn’t make me a better person. I’m just neurotic about sugar, and citrus makes me sweat. Our kids were racing around until ten, and we were all like, “Fuck it. Cheers. Man Pie. What the hell is man pie? Oooh, I love this song. What is this? Sir Mix-A-Lot? Oh my God, look at you in that picture. You looked so young! Where are our husbands? Who cares! Screw the husbands! Or wait, don’t screw them! Hahaha.”
    It was practically Dionysian, like some mother binge. Barrett was slurring and