This is the thing. Here it is. The difference between being a mother and being a father. At least in this little family. Pete had a gig tonight, which is common enough. It was at the bar nearby--the one where we met, actually--so it's nice if I can stop by. My parents consented to watch The Boy so I could go for a couple of hours. They do this a lot. They are cool. They would watch him, then I would come home, and they could go out and hear the band, too.
Of course, there I am, with friends who I hardly ever see, let alone AT NIGHT, IN AN ACTUAL BAR, and I know that I have a diaphanous time limit. Pete does not. He has a gig. I want to stay. And stay. I can't. Pete has to. He has a gig. I am having fun. Pete is having a blast. He gets to stay. He has to. He has a gig. I have to go home. I have a baby. So does he. But I am the mom.
This IS my gig.
And just before I leave, he makes an announcement into the microphone about being pulled over on the way to the bar (which is ten blocks away). Is he serious? What the hell? I can't ask. He's ON STAGE. With another beer. I get to go home and wait for the baby to wake up.
Oh, and I am still sick. I probably should not have gone out at all, but the opportunity is rather rare. I was up pretty much all of last night coughing like a practically dead person but not quite like a zombie, and I am tired.
And here I am. Back at home. Mad. Wondering if he really got pulled over and for what, and if maybe--if he really did--if he should have mentioned THAT to me instead of "honey can you bring me a dry shirt because it rained on me."