Baby Jail: Happy to be Locked Up

This weekend has the potential to to be a shining star on my November social calendar. Friday, what is sure to be the birthy fundraising event of the year is happening in Nulu and Saturday a group of my closest friends are getting together for food, adult beverages, and excellent conversation, at the newly opened El Camino in the Highlands. A place I've been dying to try.  My calendar, however, is blank...unless you count renting The Brave Little Toaster and watching it with my three year old.

The reason for this is we're in baby jail, a not-so-flattering term for declining adult only events because your child won't take a bottle, is having separation anxiety, or just isn't ready for a babysitter yet. In our case it's a little of all of that.

Hillary and I tried a dinner date a few weeks ago and ended up eating our dinner out of Styrofoam boxes in our living room. The babysitter called after an hour and a half (we waited 45 min for a table) saying Marlowe had been screaming the entire time. I wasn't entirely surprised. Hill and I laughed and got our food to go. But I have to admit there was a brief moment at that restaurant, as I was slamming my mojito, in which I thought maybe we should just stay. Familiar voices crept into my mind: the baby will be fine, crying is good for her lungs, you have to live your life.

I snapped out of it pretty quickly and remembered that my husband and I have chosen a different path for our family. We want to make decisions that respect our kids and their feelings and emotions, and that means taking into consideration the undeveloped emotional state and understanding of our five month old. I thought of her crying for two hours because she needed her parents, okay, let's be real, her mom, and my decision was easy. We'll try again when she's older.

So this weekend, while I will miss celebrating a huge accomplishment for local women and enjoying delicious food with my besties, it's okay. This time with baby Marlowe is fleeting. Soon she'll be toddler Marlowe and before we know it middle-schooler Marlowe and I'll be wishing I had some of that separation anxiety back in our lives.