Irish Whiskey: A Mother’s Helper
By: Martha Manning
Tags: Babies, Motherhood, Whiskey, Love, Relationships

I was not such a hot baby mother. Either that or I had a not-so-hot baby. We were actually terrific during the day. She gurgled when I talked and looked at me brilliantly like I was reciting Proust.

She was always hungry and acted like my breasts were BigGulp dispensers at the local convenience store. She was a beautiful baby . . . during the day. The problem was that at night she turned into an Exorcist baby, the nightmare child who was just not getting the fact that sleep was the natural counterpart of waking. Instead, it was an endurance contest, for her, and for me.

Baby 1, Mother 0

Every night, beginning at 2:00 am I could hear the stretching of her arms and legs, the unhappy stirring, which would result in all-out flailing in 30 seconds. Then came the glass-cracking cries, which became so intense that every few moments, it sounded like she would lose her breath entirely.

In my paranoid, sleep-deprived state, I was sure she did it just to get to me. To her, the night was just a pesky partner of the day. Everything that worked to calm her during the day, was useless at night. All she wanted was for me to talk to her. So I told her about books I’d read, parties I’d been to, the next day’s grocery list. I even resorted to a presentation of my dissertation that wasn’t getting done . . . because of her. She was mildly interested but fussed throughout. But she finally went to sleep.

The choppers

But it wasn’t meant to last. I had forgotten about the little daggers that push through gums that aren’t even sturdy enough for chunky baby food. They don’t just pop through, ready for service. No, they take a torturous slow route up and out. My memory for it has fortunately been erased. But my baby was misery personified. The worst part is that she looked at me as if I was responsible.

Ask the ancestors

When I complained about it to my Grandmother, she said matter-of-factly,

“Rub whiskey on her gums.” I couldn't believe she was saying it. Alcoholism has been generous to my family and the thought of giving her a taste of it during infancy sounded like big trouble to me.

After another few horrible nights, I poured out my heart to my mother. She shrugged, “Put whiskey on her gums.” she said casually. When I frowned, she got exasperated, “Good God, Martha, I took Dexedrine through my whole pregnancy with you and you turned out all right!”

Dexedrine??? That explained so much.

Liquor Store

At opening time, my bundled-up daughter and I were waiting at the liquor store. It looked like one of those old libraries with books stacked floor to ceiling, except the books were booze.

A man came over. I couldn’t tell if he worked there, or just liked to worship at the altar of alcohol. He looked like Santa Claus, without the uniform. The minute he opened his mouth, his thick Irish brogue sounded like he’d just gotten off the boat.

“Can I give you some help, darlin’?”

Oh, is my heritage that obvious? Wait till he sees the sprouts of bright red hair on my kid.

“Yes,” I need a bottle of whiskey,” I said like I knew what I was doing.

“Well, actually I don’t need it. She needs it, “ I pointed to the wriggling snowsuit in my arms.

“Ah! She’s cuttin’ her teeth. Poor wee thing . . . You don’t need whiskey!” he said dismissively,

“You need Irish Whiskey!”

Before I could say anything, he was climbing towards the ceiling. He was back in a few seconds, holding a bottle in his hand like it was a brick of gold. It said “Jameson.”

“Oh yeah, this just what you’ll be needn’.” He held it close to him and launched into his instructions.

“Stick your finger way down and let it get real wet. Then paint the wee girl’s gums. All over. Okay?” I was a little horrified but agreed.

Photo by Jeff Brown on Unsplash

Then he reached into his apron, pulled out a tiny glass and said,

“Missy, I hope you won’t be takin’ offense if I’d be givin’ some more advice.” What more advice could he possibly give me? He pulled out a shot glass with little green shamrocks that said Jameson on it.

“You look worn out and like your nerves are frayin’. Take this glass, fill it with whiskey, tilt your neck and take the whole thing in one shot.”

“ME?” I could just picture myself at an AA meeting within the week.

When he saw my dismay he reassured me “Don’t worry, me Mam did it with the ten of us and she’s brilliant!”

I recalled the word bollocks, an Irish term for bullshit, but I was desperate

“The drink”

That night, with her anguished screaming, I screwed the top of the Jameson bottle with one hand while I balanced her in the other. I stuck my index finger down for a dripping dose. I waited till the open mouth part of her screamed and covered her gums. She reacted like I had just set her mouth on fire . . . “Oh no!” But then I could feel the tension evaporate.

She looked straight at me, comforted, but still awake. I was totally rattled by the alcoholic dentistry I had just performed on my unsuspecting child. I remembered what that Irish guy said about the “shot.”

As I jiggled her, I poured myself the golden whiskey. I stared it down and then thrust my head back and let it explode on its way down. The baby was right, I had set her mouth on fire . . . but just as I began to feel horribly guilty, a warmth diffused all over me. As my body relaxed, I swear the baby looked at me as if to say, “Not bad is it?”

We sat back in the rocking chair. I sang her every 70’s song I could think of and for the first time since her birth, she didn’t start wailing. Her Irish eyes were, (indeed) smiling, then glassy and heavy. I couldn’t have just tossed her into the crib and she wouldn’t have cared.

I stood and for the first time was relaxed enough to just lean over the crib and watch her sleep, to inhale each breath as her tiny stomach rose and fell. To be fueled with rest as she let sleep envelop and restore her.

I didn’t just love her the way mothers are supposed to.

I loved her like crazy.

For those moments, I wasn’t worried about the next time she woke up. I wasn’t worried about my dissertation not getting done. And I wasn’t worried that I was failing at the one thing billions of women were doing at that very moment — easing their babies into the night, day and accepting the difference.

Ok, yeah . . . the booze was a breakthrough.

But I learned something else.

Sometimes the ancestors sound like crackpots.

And my Irish heritage is full of people with some very interesting ideas.

But the thing is, sometimes there is good wisdom hidden in the endless capacity of love that flows freely through the imperfect generations.