Sambuca Thursday

Do any other moms feel as self-conscious as I do about dragging their toddler to the liquor store?

I usually try to avoid the situation altogether. You know, the looks, real or imagined, really start to make me feel like a terrible parent, as if I am about to rush home and down my bottle of Pinot Noir through a funnel, my son bawling beside me, stewing in his own poop, crying for his drunken mama to pay him some attention.

But today I had to go. Because I needed to buy some wine. Not in the sense that I needed it, as in I just had to have a drink right then. (though it wouldn't have hurt.) But I was attending a little writers' soiree to which I volunteered to bring wine, and I was supposed to arrive at 6:30 sharp, which is exactly when Rich arrives home from work. So I had no time to spare.

So here I am with my son in his winter jacket and sneakers which are still smeared with mud from yesterday's little hike through the still-defrosting woods, dragging him into the liquor store to buy two bottles of wine inexpensive enough to not feel that I overcompensated for strangers, but good enough not to look cheap. His nose is leaking like a sieve and he's trying to roll the little fire engine I bought him as a reward for not completely breaking down at our latest over-extended visit to Target between the bottles of Yellow Tail.

I grab two bottles of Blackstone, then get in the long line. Who knew Thursday's were such a busy day in a suburban liquor store? The woman in front of me, who is buying a bottle of Chardonnay, smiles at us, no doubt deciding whether or not she should call DSS as, in one hand I hold two wine bottles by their necks, and with the other try and tame my son, who is doing that thing toddler's do when they try and sit on the ground while you're holding their hand, so he looks like a malfunctioning marionette. I am starting to sweat.

I am ALWAYS carded at this liquor store, even though I am well beyond the legal drinking age, and as I get closer to the checkout counter, I wonder if the barely-legal clerk thinks I am old enough to even have a kid. Certainly wishful thinking, as he not only doesn't ask for my ID (bastard), he also pays no mind to the fact that my son, a trail of green running from his nostril to his upper lip, is swinging from my arm and trying to grab a bottle for himself.

A man steps in line behind us. He has nothing in his hands, no bottle of wine, no micro-brew six-pack. He says hello to my son, who hides behind me. I pat his head and notice the man -- 40-ish, graying, dressed in business casual and what looks like a Member's Only jacket -- is wearing sunglasses. Indoors. I hate when people do that.

I plop my wine on the counter while at the same time trying to hold onto my son's hand and pull my debit card out of my wallet. I punch in my pin then move my things over until I get situated. The sunglasses-wearing man steps up to the counter and asks quietly for a fifth of sambuca. While he is paying, my son and I make our way out onto the sidewalk and the man follows shortly thereafter. As we head to our car, the man straightens his back, flinches, then slips the bottle of sambuca into the pocket of his well-pressed khakis.

Bachelor, I think. Then he steps into his gleaming, white minivan.