It wasn?t until five months in, when I had a solid mom friend and the confidence to walk the city, that I hit upon a mat-leave milestone: day drinking. Lisa and I usually spent hours in the park, on a blanket laid with hummus and rice crackers and water bottles. But it was raining, the pub was right there, and we were leg-numbingly tired. It was dark and empty inside. We slid into a booth, laid our sleeping babies on the velvet banquette and ordered pints. We giggled, kind of incredulous that this was even allowed. Those watery beers sent us into another dimension, where we could drink and talk like people who didn?t have to think about the next diaper change or whether the alcohol would be out of our systems by the next feed. It was a strange and delightful pocket of time and the start of a beautiful thing: With this drink, I could escape. Or was it a return to something" This is a story about moms who drink. A generous pour as we prep dinner, sipping as we slide something into the microwave or drop it frozen from a bag onto a tray. We hate the food a little less when we top up our glasses. The kids? bickering doesn?t sound as shrill. The rush, the race?it all slows down, slides away. We exhale. We feel alternately relaxed, guilty, lulled, defensive. Childless drinkers, cherish your cheap shots. Daddies, cheers to your craft beer. Moms everywhere, with your bourbon, your cider, your Prosecco: I wish it were that simple.

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