There’s no such thing as a free dinner

I went out for a meal this evening, telling my wife I’d be home by eight. About nine, we were still eating (an ok cup of ice cream for me, but nothing wonderful). My wife texted me to see where I was. I promised I’d be home soon. We went for beers. I protested that I needed to be home. We had more beer. I tried to get a taxi. Singapore’s taxi drivers refused to come and take me home. I arrived home at 11, three hours later than intended.

This was not a very responsible thing to do, especially when La Serpiente Negra was demanding all parental attention, as she was tonight. Failure mode for our little miss involves a high volume of wailing and inconsolate babbling, and by ten p.m. she was at full blast, something i should have been around to lend moral support for, at the very least.

Thus i was suffused by guilt upon my return. It’s no good having your dinner paid for if you feel terrible afterwards.

My wife was unimpressed by my contrition, reasonably enough. It wasn’t like I’d done any of the hard work this evening, unless you find eating pizza horribly onerous. Finally, I did my good deed for the day by sending her to sleep in the spare room while I occupied the sofa, first line of defense against a wailing baby.

My hypothesis is that out daughter can smell her mother and the promise of milk, so if she wakes to find herself alone in the dark, she may be more likely to go back to sleep, as there will be no weakness she can detect to exploit.

Well, we can hope. Probably this signifies too much drinking by .me.

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