This past Sunday I had brunch with a single friend of mine. My husband was out of town so the baby had to come along. Which, in fairness to my friend, she had no problem with. We arranged to meet at noon at The Smith which is one of the few places in the East Village that is large enough to accommodate a stroller. (Especially since Mazzy's ride is the Bugaboo Cameleon– the stroller equivalent of a bus). Noon also happens to be nap time. My plan was to take the baby for a stroll about 15 minutes prior, get her nice and sleepy before I showed up at the restaurant and then eat a leisurely brunch next to a dozing baby non-the-wiser. My plan was also to inhale a vat of gelato without gaining a pound and to grow a money tree on the balcony outside my apartment because clearly I think I'm living in a fantasy world.

Needless to say, the baby did not fall asleep on our stroll. I showed up at The Smith late with one wide awake little peanut. Once seated, I was focused on Mazzy's fickle level of contentment. Should I get a high chair for her? Maybe she'll fall asleep in the stroller anyway? How much time do I have before she completely loses her mind?  Fifteen minutes in and I don't even think I'd given my friend a "how are ya?"

Just as I had finally begun to check out the menu, my friend announced, "I have a Mommy Short for you." Huh? A mommy short from my childless friend? "Yes," she said with a smirk, "Listen".  And with that she handed me her phone. Through the cacophony of the restaurant, the voice on the other end was a little hard to make out.  There was singing, possibly both male and female voices, some horrible xylophone playing— OH NO.  As the color began to drain from my face, I asked in a small voice, "Is this me?" "Yep," my single friend said dripping in self-satisfaction with every life choice she's ever made.

Apparently, I had mistakenly pocket dialed my friend while playing with the baby. But this wasn't your average game of ball roll— this was me satisfying a tough critic's need for top-notch entertainment. Mazzy, as you might remember, is the Ebert of child play. My friend's voicemail had captured me putting on a show with two hand puppets— Lambchop and a Monkey we call Mo . They were singing a duet in their signature voices— Lambchop performs as a lady lamb, obviously, and Mo is a dude. 

The song is another source of embarrassment. I sing many songs to Mazzy that are on the "cooler" side of lullabies.  We do Green Eyes by Cold Play, Janis Joplin's Summertime, and Blackbird by the Beatles. But this was not a "cooler" lullaby moment.  No, at this moment, in the interest of keeping things fresh, I had reached into my brain and plucked out a Barney song from the early to mid nineties.  That "I Love You, You Love Me" bullshit that I must remember from being a day camp counselor. 

And for the grand finale, Lambchop, Mo, myself, and Mazzy all took turns banging the crap out of the Xylophone.

My friend had gotten this call when she was out to dinner with a bunch of other single girl friends.  And they passed that phone around and laughed and laughed and spent the better part of the evening talking about how horrifyingly uncool their friends with children have become. Sigh. I can't even defend myself.

To top the brunch off, Mazzy started freaking out right after we placed our order so I decided to take her for a walk around the block, certain that this time she would fall asleep.  She did not.  And by the time I got back (which really didn't seem that long!), my friend was already half finished with her huevos rancheros. This turned out to be a good thing because it meant she could hold Mazzy while I ate my meal.

Being a mom is awesome, but we really do suck as friends sometimes I think. My single friend though is more than awesome, because she gave me permission to use the photo above.