Confessions Part I

Last night was a success all across the board! HR was a dream baby for his sitters (and for us when we got home - he slept better than he has for awhile. Guess you'd better move in, Ape), and we almost won trivia. We actually tied for first place, but ended up taking second in the tie-breaker. Boo for the other team who had a better guess about the number of dimples in a golf ball. The important thing was that there was beer and nachos and good adult company and I'm looking forward to doing this again soon indeed.

Speaking of, here's hypothetical question: if--hypothetically--one of your favorite bands was playing in town on your son's first birthday, would it make you a bad parent to get a sitter and go see them? Hypothetically? Personally I'd take it as a sign that you're supposed to go, like, the band's tour stop coincides with the very day of your child's birth, it had to be ordained by the stars or something.

Oh who am I kidding, I'm not soliciting an answers from anyone. Chances are very good that Mike and I will be spending HR's first birthday with Duran Duran. Le petit monsieur will not care or even know that it's his birthday. That's the beauty of babies: they are not that smart and you can put a lot of things over on them.

This weekend Mr. Baby and I are going up to Maine for the occasion of my sister's bridal shower, while Dada will be representing our family at my sister-in-law's thirtieth bash. It sucks that we have to miss the party (and that HR will miss out on seeing a lot of his family), and it sucks to be split up, but these things happen from time to time. I am looking forward to seeing people I love and getting down with some outrageous food. Technically, as the matron of honor, I am the hostess along with the other bridesmaids, but my mother and grandmother and the team of aunts and cousins and friends in our lives are pros at throwing these types of bashes, so I'm content to let them work their decorating and catering magic and help out how and where I can.

So there you have it, confessions of a trivia loser, callous parent and half-assed attendant. I feel so much better now. And while I'm getting things off my chest, I have long harbored an inappropriate, deluded, 1950s-Liberace-fan-style adoration for Rufus Wainwright. But really, can you blame me?