Having discovered that she’s unexpectedly expecting, Kelley is already belly-ing up to the demands of pregnancy by quitting smoking.

You. Go. Girl.

With my first child, I wasn’t smart enough to quit smoking entirely. This was umpteen years ago, long before we’d all been thoroughly beaten about the heads and shoulders with the information connecting smoking during pregnancy and ADD, childhood cancers, genetic deformities, atheism and poor taste in clothes. So I smoked 2 Carltons a day. That’s not two packs. Two cigarettes, if you can even call Carltons a “smoke.” They tasted like air, but dammit, they tasted good, too.

With my second — just 5 1/2 short years ago — I quit. As my nicotine replacement, I chewed on the heads of those who annoyed me. I was never in short supply.

But quitting smoking during my 2nd pregnancy wasn’t nearly as hard as giving up my twice-weekly martinis. That was hell. I’d had the Wednesday/Friday martini ritual for years, and they’d gotten me through quite a lot of shit: law school, bar exams, marriage, adjusting to marriage, wondering why the hell I got married, re-adjusting to marriage, starting my law practice and finding out that I was happily married after all. I needed my martinis. Not lots of them, just the two martinis, two nights a week.

An hour after I’d delivered my son — right around the time the epidural was wearing off — my husband excused himself from the hospital. He’d been there for 17 hours, so I figured he was due for a shower. With the numbness wearing off, the rip in my genetalia had most — but not all of my attention… I retained enough sense to realize that the blinding pain in my crotch was ultimately my husband’s fault, so perhaps he was wise to leave when he did. Besides, he’d assured me he’d return quickly with something for me to wear besides a hospital gown. (Somehow while packing my Labor Day Luggage, I’d managed to remember things as mundane as a nail file and extra body lotion, but had forgotten stuff like PJs that didn’t leave my ass hanging out.)

If I’d ever wondered before whether my husband was the Right Man for me, I lost all doubts that night. He was back in 45 minutes with not only the PJs but a martini shaker — and a chilled glass — in hand.

So when it’s your time to deliver, Kelley, you let me know. I’ll be there with that Pinot Grigio you like. I’ll even promise not to bring my cigarettes. But you can be damn sure I’ll be carrying the martini shaker that De Doc gave me.

Wednesday, January 4th, 2006, 6:35 pm   |   Blog bites  |  RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.