My mother comes over at 7:30, God bless her, to babysit, like most Wednesday nights. Yosef and I are beat from a hectic few weeks, so we just grab a bite, drive around Evanston a little pretending that we have enough money to live in one of those swank condos by Northwestern, then suggesting instead that we pose as an elderly couple and get a subsidised room at the North Shore on Chicago Ave. (that place looks nice, and it’s right down the block from Kaffein). We come home at 9:30, figure we’ll watch a episode of 24 or something, hit the sack early, give my mom a break sincew we were out past midnight the week before.
Unfortunately, the kids were excited to see their Bubbie, she had some auditory processing test she wanted to give them “just for fun”, and 9 PM just seemed like a good time to start a collage project.
“Two more minutes and they would have been alseep,” my mother assured me.
At 10:30, my parents have finally left, and I am passed out on the couch. Yosef takes off my boots and makes like he’s going to carry me to bed. I call his bluff and stumble to the bedroom myself.
As I drift off to sleep, I dream of Woody Allen movies filled with 30-something singles who eat out for every meal and decide to go to the opera on less than 24 hour’s notice, indulging in their self-absorbed lack of responsibility for anything but themselves.
Bassie comes to the door crying: “You said you were going to sleep with me, Mommy!”
“I’ll be right there, honey!” And I spend an hour twisting an turning on the floor next to her own invention of a make-shift bed made out of a crib mattress covered in pillows.
Oh, well.
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