Punk rock meets preppy: Clementine's hot date

And I didn't get any pictures!

Last night we had dinner with some new friends, and Clementine got to meet their very cute new son Hudson, who was wearing khakis, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and, yes, loafers. This preppiness was not a harbinger of doom, however--Hudson and his parents were banking on the fact that opposites attract. Clementine was dressed in leopard print and black, but it was hard to tell if there were sparks flying between these two potential lovers. Both babies were way more interested in their own universes to be too excited about hanging with the other. It's just the age, I guess, but Hudson mostly ate and slept (how I miss those early weeks sometimes) and made these very cute little screaming noises, and Clementine, my paper junky, played with all of the tags on Hudson's little jungle gym mat before demanding her place at the adult table for dinner by fussing whenever we put her down. Hudson eventually went down for the night (in his crib no less), but Clementine was determined to show just how punk rock she is by refusing bedtime until we bundled her in the dreaded car seat and fed her all the way home.

The evening overall was a great success. It is so wonderful to leave the house without 85 bags of toys, blankets, the Boppy and all the other diversions that keep the screaming meanies away. There are many reasons it's nice to go to a house that has its own baby, not the least of which is knowing there will be wipes if you forget them and a bunch of toys, familiar and new. And there is the alternate heading to this post:

Babies: the new social lubricant

I am terrible about meeting new people, and I hate owning up to this wild insecurity. I usually handle it by drinking too much wine and offering up inappropriate verbal ejaculations into those common moments of silence when one topic has been exhausted and another hasn't yet been introduced. Nate, on the other hand, just gets quiet and sometimes even tongue-tied. We're like socially retarded polar opposites, though his way of dealing with it is infinitely better as he doesn't suffer my normal morning-after breakdown, where I lie in bed gripping my head (too much wine, remember) asking him over and over again, Did I really say that? Do you think they noticed? Are you sure they were horrified? Will we ever hear from them again? It is soooo not pretty.

But with babies, all my anxiety disappeared! They are the new wine (and, no, I don't mean that in the punny "whine" kind of way). I was too busy getting Clementine ready and out the door with enough milk to try on my usual dozen outfits, watching the kids on the floor gave us something other than keeping a constant stream of conversation to focus on, and over the course of the evening we had a single topic we could come back to again and again without ever exhausting it. Best of all we didn't have to apologize for being so damn myopic--we were among fellow new parents who don't find conversations that return again and again to poop, breastfeeding, parental stress, toys and baby milestones all that bizarre. That's not to say we didn't talk about other things. We talked politics, which I know from first-hand experience can be the kiss of death (we'll leave that frightful story of too much beer, different opinions on the Iraq war and a screaming match for another time), but in this case was the opposite because we all think the president is ridiculous and are still in a deep depression over the election. We talked about theater, about writing, about our jobs, weddings, whatever. It didn't matter because we were just so damn comfortable. And it's probably not just the baby thing--Adam and Courtney are very cool people, involved in all sorts of cool things, related to one of the Pontani Sisters and not into the competitive or judgmental parenting that totally messes me up. The only down side I see is that their house is way too clean and organized and that Courtney cooked--actually used her oven and created an entire meal that included several courses and dessert and didn't trash her kitchen at the same time. Who is this woman, a superhero?

I realize I sound a little school girly here, and it's probably true that I have a bit of a couple-crush on them. I had to hold back my inner St. Bernard as we were leaving and not jump up on them and lick their faces and demand we spend every single second of the rest of our lives together. It was a close call, and I again have to thank darling C. for taking care of my social quirks. She started fussing and demanding immediate departure, so I couldn't quite whip out my calendar and make them commit to hanging out with us once a week for the rest of time. My little punk rock girl was telling me to play it cool for now, to leave 'em wanting more. I think I have a lot to learn from her. But can I call them now, C?