We made our first attempt in two months to dine out. I haven’t been willing to go until this point out of the sheer depression I will feel as I sit there eating my stinkin’ bowl of rice as my husband devours his lacquered short ribs and swills his beer.
We decided the Japanese place was our best bet as surely they have rice there. I ordered an avocado roll and a sweet potato roll. Nothing crazy or on the list of forbidden foods, but the sweet potato inside the roll arrived covered in a crispy tempura crust. A good mother would’ve taken one look at her infant son, seen the look of horror on his face and pushed the plate aside, but I threw all caution to the wind and thought what the hell.
Well that night was a nice introduction to what hell might be like—endless hours holding an inconsolable, screaming baby who refused to eat. He’d had enough of my carelessness and wasn’t going to take it anymore. Feeling tired and defeated I took out the final weapon in my arsenal—the formula. Fearing the worst I fixed him a bottle and he wolfed it down. I fixed a little bit more and he took that down too. After the second bottle he looked up at me, burped and probably wanted to say, “what took you so long lady?” but his English isn’t quite there yet.
So that’s that, I’m back to eating and he’s happy as a clam, well an infant clam who refuses to sleep and suffers bouts of annoyed boredom at 4 o’clock in the morning.