Well it’s practically March and oh my goodness do I miss cocktails.

I just finished the Dinner a Love Story cookbook (so good, so good, by the way) and Jenny frequently mentions her retreat to an evening gin and tonic whilst cooking, and especially while cooking with toddlers. Her loyal love of one good cocktail (with “only fizzy tonic”) made me like her all the more, but also made me desperate for my own.

“This is a tough time of year to live in Boston,” I announced to Joe.

“I think it’s a tough time of year to live anywhere,” he said, too moderately for my taste, especially at 8am.

“I don’t think it’s a tough time of year in Mexico.”

Joe gave up alcohol and coffee for Lent, which is extremely noble. I pretended to dither about it, but really I can’t give up another thing. Pregnancy is lent, as my dear friend and priest’s wife so nicely pointed out. Last night with the doulas we discussed what a mysteriously big baby Lux was (9lb 10 oz) and I blamed it on a protein shake I drank a lot while pregnant with her. “And no white sugar or white flour?” one asked. My mind blanked as I searched for something I was currently eating that wasn’t comprised mostly of white sugar and white flour. “Uh well, a lot of pasta,” I said lamely. “A lot of macaroni and cheese,” I clarified. “Oh.” she said. I mentally scratched off a few more items to feel confident about when eating.

My twenty-three-year-old brother Leighton offered to not drink for my entire pregnancy if, I also, did not drink. Imagine the audacity.

Like most modern conversation topics, whether you drink or do not drink is treated as a highly personal decision that one makes for themselves based on highly personal feelings. The conclusions on whether the fetus is affected by occasional drinking are bounced back and forth between opponents like a swinging ping pong game. Nonetheless, if you visit an OB office in America, a nurse will probably say something along the lines of “It seems silly to say, but of course you’re not drinking?”

Leave it to family to cross the safe line of modernity’s “It’s your decision, not mine!” politeness. I took him up on his offer because it was so thoughtful. This is a kid who, at the time, probably got a safe quarter of his weekly calories from beer. I couldn’t resist his offer of co-denial in its sheer chumminess…and because of a slew of other implications that seemed to lie within it.

It seemed implied, for example, what kind of barbarian was I? If he could go without a glass of wine now and then, why couldn’t I do it? In the past, a tiny part of me admired women who completely abstained, but a larger part of me held them off as a little juvenile. Like, if everyone’s having mimoas at brunch, is it really necessary to wave your hand and insist on only orange juice for yourself?

But it was pointed out to me by my dear, over-curious family (keep in mind I’m the first one to have a baby among them) that to decide to drink simply to satisfy my rebellious counter-cultural francophile streak was absurd indeed.

True that.

So I think I’ve texted him a total of five times for exceptions to our plan, i.e., very special occasions. Five drinks in 22 weeks is certainly a more moderate environment than Lux abided in. Soak it up, baby, and let’s see it in the SAT scores in 18 years, ok?

February 28th and it’s bleak folks, bleak! There are still small slumps of snow on the street, each protectively harboring its own disgusting pile of soggy trash. Mmm, this looks delicious, Lux says, as she picks through each one like a little alley urchin.

Mercifully we were at Formaggio Kitchen this morning for coffee and they had piled up a basket of the darkest cinnamon bread loaves I’d ever seen. You know how you want cinnamon bread, not some-bread-etched-with-cinnamon? This was it. As a rule Lux doesn’t eat bread (white carbs, Mom! she says reproachfully) but we both tore off hunks and ate it as we walked.

We’ll get through this yet.