The difference in a year

As I was rocking the Prince back asleep a few minutes ago, something occurred to me as his small, thrashing frame struggled to escape both his swaddle and my struggling grasp: a year ago I was trying to engage members and get them excited about being involved in their Union; now I’m trying to put my audience back to sleep as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t think twice about having a glass of wine – or two – with dinner; now I have an untouched six pack gathering dust somewhere because my body is no longer my own, and I need to keep what breast milk I can muster free from the influence of anything that used to resemble a great night.  Still glowing and gently tanned from our honeymoon, last year I was walking to the corner bar to throw back a few while waiting for some some of the city’s best  wings, steaming and slathered in a rich sauce, on a whim after work; today going out to eat requires a sitter, worried stares bouncing across the table and to the time on my phone, the depletion of my dwindling stash of liquid gold (we took the Prince out to lunch once and I’m not sure if we’ll try again any time soon) and is just not worth the risks.


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