It’s June 1, and I’m two weddings deep into wedding season. Two sober weddings, by golly. Have you ever been to a wedding and not had a drink? I mean even one drink? It’s terrible. You can’t even raise a glass for the toast without feeling like a moron. At the first wedding, someone kept saying “I can’t believe you’re sober. Tomorrow you’ll have to tell me all about this—blah blah blah.” And also, people have to comment on me dancing like a mad-woman without being tipsy. Leave me alone, alright. Dance parties are awesome. Sigh.
I can’t wait for the doctor to give me the go-ahead; I think it’s coming soon, but I’m not about to self-diagnose and then have the baby come out to them yelling: “Holy cow, how much have you been drinking? Look at this thing!” and then push some call button so all the other doctors and midwives and med-students in the county can come witness what happens when a mother drinks alcohol at the wrong point in her pregnancy.
I’m also definitely not listening to people who say “No amount of alcohol is ever safe.” Please, like I have that kind of self-restraint.
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