We decided to celebrate by going out to dinner at a nice restaurant. The kind with linen tablecloths, extensive wine lists and a zero-tolerance policy for babies. To accomplish this wild night of adult dining, we asked Pat to babysit.
I came up with a brilliant plan: the reservation would be made late so that I could go through Otter's routine, put her to bed, and Bree and I could sneak off and dine, SB none-the-wiser. It started off well enough - Otter went down easily, Pat arrived and, after changing and even putting on some makeup, we were off to dinner.
The call came in at 10pm. It appears that about 15 minutes after we left, Otter woke up only to discover that her mom and dad had inexplicably disappeared, replaced by a complete stranger (their previous meetings non-withstanding). This turn of events made Otter decidedly unhappy - which she expressed loudly for the next 2 hours as Pat struggled to settle her down. Apparently, by this point, SB'd cried so hard that she'd thrown up, and she was looking for a change of clothes for her.
This marked the end of dinner. Grabbing what we could in to go bags and abandoning a carafe of very good (and very expensive) wine, Bree and I raced home, breaking some speed limits, and possibly the sound barrier.
As we burst through the door we found Pat slumped in our armchair with a tearstained Otter passed out in her lap. Hearing us come in, Otter opened her eyes, and with a look of immeasurable relief welcomed us home. Pat, with a similar look, took off for her house before hell had a chance to break loose again.
Putting Otter to bed for the second time that night, I was once again struck by Pat's heroism in the face of inconsolable baby. And how strangely appropriate this ending seems in light of our new life. Happy Anniversary to us.
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