Why Yes, We Will Be Naming Him Jack Daniels

Today, while I was shopping at Target for mostly innocuous items, J texted me asking me to pick up a 12 pack of Rolling Rock for an out-of-town guest who is coming to visit this weekend. Now, ever since I've become visibly pregnant, J has really enjoyed asking me to buy beer for him. No one has yet made a comment, but I've certainly gotten some odd looks. Today the awkwardness was compounded by the fact that I was also buying Raid and hangers. I will never be able to go through that Target cashier's line again. (J keeps threatening to also ask me to pick up cigarettes, vaseline and fireworks during one of these little jaunts, in addition to the booze. Sigh).

Speaking of booze, I've never been much of a drinker. Even in the halcyon days of college, alcohol just never held much interest for me. I don't particularly like the taste of alcohol, so it's not that big a temptation for me. I've never drunk so much that I've had a hangover, and with one shining exception, I've never been sick from drinking. (The exception had more to do with motion sickness than the alcohol, as a non-stick-shift-driver was giving me a ride home in my manual transmission car. That's my story and I'm sticking to it). Except that he thinks I'm broken for not drinking beer, J for the most part appreciates my teetotalism. It means I'm generally the designated driver. And we're happy with this arrangement.

Let's conduct an experiment, shall we? Take a woman with this kind of background. Get her pregnant. Wait approximately 6 months.

Granted, I only have a sample size of one here, but according to my scientific research, suddenly alcohol sounds FANTASTIC! For the past several months, I have been finding myself thinking inappropriate thoughts about cocktails. I'm thinking wistfully of the champagne we plan to bring to the hospital to celebrate LO's birth. I imagine kiddie pools rimmed with salt and filled with margarita. I actually got angry at my latest issue of Nutrition Paranoia Quarterly for saying that no amount of alcohol is safe in terms of cancer prevention. (What else are they going to take away from me? I railed at J). I had naively assumed that giving up alcohol for 9 months would be no big deal whatsoever. I'm even sniffing J's beers--even though they still smell like beer (read: awful)--in a somewhat wistful way.

Now, I know that if I broke down and had a cocktail, it wouldn't be a huge deal. Americans tend to be all-or-nothing thinkers, and a single cocktail enjoyed by an expectant mother during her gestation will not result in Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, but try telling that to the people who give me the death eye when I buy J's beer. (J also likes to point out that spending $5 on a margarita now could save us thousands later on in college costs. It's an investment, he says. You remember that I love irreverence, right?) I'm not going to have a cocktail, mostly because I DON'T LIKE alcohol. Whatever cravings I'm having are either coming from the miniature frat boy I'm carrying (I'm thinking he's spending a lot of time upside-down right now so he can do an umbilical keg stand--"Mom ate grilled cheese for lunch! Woo hoo! Chug! Chug! Chug!"), or because of the allure of forbidden fruit. Either way, giving up alcohol was supposed to be an easy part of being pregnant. And in another 3ish weeks, I can have booze again (in moderation, as I'll be breast-feeding). I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll become suddenly indifferent to the allure of booze once I can have it again.