Drinking with the kids

And why it's always a good idea. Except sometimes.

Another post about drinking but this one’s more kid-friendly. 

Or rather, it’s kid-centric. 

It’s kid-centric because all of the drinking occurred with dozens of kids running around at our feet. But before you go calling Child Services on me, let me clarify that we weren’t the only parents drinking. In fact, every parent had a drink in their hand at some point in the three hours we were there. 

And yes, three hours is a long time to spend at a bar with your kid but it’s really not as bad as it sounds. The drinking and the kids, I mean. Or maybe it is. 

Unfortunately, this story doesn’t end like others I’ve shared from the bar. Like the one from Spoony’s Irish pub, or when I was sipping Painkillers with Rico on the boardwalk in St Croix—experiences which left me feeling chipper and chuffed. 

On the contrary, this particular story ends with me in a bleary-eyed daze late on Tuesday evening, hair disheveled and the faint smell of vomit in the air. 

But the end is no place to start so let’s take a Tarantino spin and come back to this part later. 

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When we left the islands for Philadelphia we knew theoretically what we were getting ourselves into in regards to the weather. But I’ll be the first to admit that I’m surprised about how much we’ve struggled to cope with the cold. And the rain. And the snow. And the gray—that godforsaken gray. 

Even after six years in New York, there’s really no getting used to the winter in this part of the world. In fact, I’d argue each winter gets infinitely worse. And a lot of that has to do with having a child to keep busy now. 

Winter in the pre-Maala days was easier to pass. One could head to the bars, cozy up with a book, watch movies, and head out for late-night dinners. Now it’s like every 15 minutes is a new time slot to be filled with activities and entertainment—a task made obscenely more difficult when you can’t go outside for fear of hyperthermia. This leaves you with a death sentence of a different kind: staying inside all day watching Frozen and playing trucks.

So when Mel found a bar a short uber rider away that stated it had an indoor playground in it, cold beer, and a Sunday brunch special, it didn’t take long for us to be speeding along the freeway north in its direction. 

Could this be our saving grace? Maala plays, we drink, everyone wins! 

Upon arrival, 35,000 square feet of a warehouse bar extended before us. It wasn’t just for parents and kids, it was a proper bar simply with a kids section. Genius.

Our server sat us right by the playground housing the pirate ship. The area was filled with screaming toddlers, babies trying to walk, and young parents trying not to throw their back out as they followed in tow. 

Four years ago had you told me that such a chaotic scene would fill me with so much excitement I would’ve slapped you right in the teeth. But ain’t that life? 

The server pitched us: “I recommend the brunch special—open bar including beer, cocktails and wine, and all you can eat from the brunch buffet.”

Blimey… An open bar? 

Mel and I made eye contact and it was like we were falling in love all over again. Our order was placed before we’d taken our coats off. The server slapped some orange wristbands around our pasty wrists and we were off. 

So was Maala. We’d only just sat down before we realized we’d lost her. She was standing atop the pirate ship singing shanties and fighting other kids for a turn at the steering wheel. 

A mimosa for Mel, a pint of beer for yours truly, a clink of the glasses, and all our worries melted away. 

Maala found some mini-basketballs which she smooshed into her face, then she licked a chair, and nearly took a sip out of another kid’s water bottle. At one point, she flung her shoes off and ran around the back of the pirate ship barefoot and growling at the other kids, arms flailing about. 

Ah, kids. Bless ‘em. 

We ordered a second round, and then a third. The afternoon rolled on. Maala met some more friends to chase and throw foam bricks at, and so we ordered the fourth round. 

It was coming up to 3:00 pm and the open bar was closing. We’d been there two hours and our glasses were still half full but we ordered a fifth round because why not, right? 

Now Mel and I were feeling toasty. They say in Vegas you should never walk away from a table when you’re on a heater and I took that energy to the bar and ordered a whisky. 

Stop judging. 

But Maala had other ideas. She’s yet to learn how to pace herself on Sunday Funday and so she quickly faded into a whiney, floppy mess who needed to be cared for. The nerve. 

I necked the remainder of my whiskey and ordered an Uber home. It was 4:30, maybe 5:00, and the three of us trekked home feeling chuffed. Maala even fell asleep. 

How do we get from there to being in my state of disarray on Tuesday night? 

That’s easy. 

See, kids are gross. 

They’re filthy little tikes with no boundaries, no standards, no shame.

They’re gregarious little monsters who catapult from emotion to emotion and use their mouth as the primary exploration device. It’s like they can’t understand the world around them without first swirling it around their gums and gargling germs like mouthwash.

This includes chairs, tables, the floor, his toys, her toys, Mum’s earrings, Dad’s watch, utensils, used cups, plush toys, legos, slides, swings, and literally everything else in reach. 

Perhaps you know where this is going…

It took 30 hours for the stomach bug to take effect. Maala crawled into our bed at 11:00 pm Monday night, squirmed around for a little while, asked for a sip of water, and then violently threw up every last drop of fluid and food in her stomach all over our bed. 

This continued every hour until Tuesday evening. 

And that’s when I started writing this post. 

And yesterday is when I intended to publish this post. 

But that cheeky little stomach bug had other plans. 

And its plans involved me. 

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If you like this post, I’ll buy you a drink. Capiche?

*Chef’s kiss*