B-Unit

To get you to buy their product, many companies use advertising to display a certain aspirational lifestyle associated with their brand. Say the luxury car ads, coaxing you to trade up into the lives of the rich and famous by driving their vehicle. Or the fashion ads, telling you to put down that doughnut and subscribe to the skinny, sultry, ambiguously sexy life characterized by a wardrobe. For me, it's the media that promises the best bar scene ever that brings out my aspirational calling - that of party girl. And admittedly, I've bought into it. Whether it was with the purchase of a plane ticket to Vegas, a couple new cocktail dresses, the best champagne, or the hip hop chart topper, I've purchased and played the role of party girl many times. And it was well worth it.

But like so many others who in reality are shut out from their advertised fantasies by responsibilities, budgets, and waist lines; my bed time, to do list, and hatred of hangovers has prevented me from ever completely realizing the never-ending party associated with my purchase power. However, for the past eleven months, even my aspirational party girl seems to have disappeared as my consumerism shifted from booze and BCBG to Babyland. 

This past week though, Mary's seventh with us, I regained a little bit of turf on the party scene. My Vegas ware still didn't fit and my dance moves remain rusty; the festivities were a lot more family friendly, dinner was on the way early side, and brunch didn't end with a buzz; but there was something about last Saturday night and Sunday morning that even the best ad couldn't capture.

The culprit: The B-Unit. Emphasis on the B; said like a rapper. The B-Unit is my less awkward name for what my bedside companion, awkwardly titled The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, calls the 'breastfeeding unit' - Mom and baby. That is, in essence mother and child are one, inherently tied together through a cord and then nipple. So my nutrition is Mary's nutrition, my warmth is hers, my immunity (or lack thereof this week) is hers. And as far as parties go, my shindig is hers too.

Even though doing things as a 'unit' can be a little more work and take a lot more time and coordination, there is nothing like having a little sidekick. Strolling, shopping, sunning this week - all a lot more fun with Mary around.

And this past weekend, when the B-Unit and the Brewer entertained for the first time in a while, I felt two times better than my latent party girl. I forgot to put on makeup on Sunday, so I don't know if I looked the part, but Mary looked as cute as can be. There was more to talk about than usual, or maybe that's just because I'm on mute for a large portion of any given day. The dishes seemed to do themselves (with the help of guests that insisted on pitching in.) Saturday night brats and brews with the Joerns on our porch was the perfect start to spring. And at brunch on Sunday, the bacon and eggs were trendier, the smoked salmon and bialys were better, and the news on the street from Greg and Juliette was bigger. 

The only problem with the 'unit' though, is that when the party is over, when the next day brings things like vaccinations, the flip side can be twice as bad. Say yesterday, which brought a doctor visit and three little shots that caused a whole lot of pain. Pain that made Mary cry in a way that I had never heard before. Pain that I couldn't sooth or console. Pain that made me cry with her. Luckily, the W-Unit - Claire, Ellie and Joe - saved the day with a little bottle of baby's Tylenol. (Future mothers take note: have this product on hand.)   

We got through it. And just like any good party girl, Mary got some extra hours of sleep this morning, ate a big breakfast, and picked out a new outfit so the B-Unit could roll onto to the next party. Pittsburgh, the Finish Line, Molly and Kevin's dance floor, and Father Grecco here we come! B-Unit!

Lo.