Before we hear patter of little feet, we’re going to kick up our heels

For the first time since we've been together, my husband and I made plans to ring in the new year in a way Kanye West would approve of. The couple who welcomed 2011 with a raging night of board games opted, this year, for a trip to L.A., a private party and a cocktail dress code.

Our inner rock stars laid dormant for a good five years, but have recently scissor-kicked back to life. All it took was the word "baby."

We don't know when, but we're thinking we might want one, maybe two -- babies, that is. We hear they bring all kinds of joy, incomparable love and really cute Facebook photos into your life. But we also hear you have to, like, raise them.

The recent baby-making discussions have inspired a sort of last-call feeling in us. A last call for voluntary sleepless nights. A last call to execute anything "on a whim." A last call for all that is deliciously family-unfriendly. Why? We can't help but view the concept of procreation as a serious threat to our concept of recreation.

So, we're going to do like the double-fisting guy at the bar after he hears the last call for alcohol. We're going to squeeze in all the fun we can, while we can.

The crazy part is that we aren't exactly an "up in da club" kind of couple. We may as well have the On Demand new releases schedule memorized, if that tells you anything. Yet, the moment we realize we might have our sleeping-in pass taken away, we suddenly get the urge to destroy a few hotel rooms.

It started with New Year's Eve, but it doesn't end there. We have many a trip planned this year. A few of the destinations include New York, Florida and the coast of Maine. And don't think we won't be tossing a few back while sitting in the emergency exit aisles on the way there. Ya know, just to spite our future baby.

We pledge to live it up, party it up, tear it up -- all that stuff that goes in the "up" direction.

We also want to embrace the kind of spontaneity that goes further than our regular fly-by-the-seats-of-our-pants double feature. Not key party further, but further.

It's all in the vein of appreciating our without-child time. When you haven't stood in line behind a velvet rope for a decade you don't think about it as much, but I used to regularly celebrate my baby-less status, no nudging needed. It's easy when your closest girlfriends become mothers right out of high school.

Let's just say I was highly grateful that the most interesting contraption you could find in my college bedroom consisted of a beer bong, not a breast pump. I also learned to love living with my parents versus living with a Crayola graffiti artist.

My friends did their best to make sure I realized how good I had it, too. One friend of mine, a mother of three, signed all my birthday cards with "Don't forget to take that pill every day." Another friend ended most our phone calls with an abrupt "Never have kids!" as she tended to some child-inflicted household emergency. Whenever that would happen, I always pictured her blasting a fire extinguisher over some potential disaster as her kids laughed with glee in the background.

Those events mentally tied my tubes and led me to the following conclusions. Babies are a clear and present danger to one's freedom. Babies strip a responsible mother and father of the same right the Beastie Boys fought for all those years ago -- the right to party. And, babies are fun terrorists.

Think about it. There's a reason moviegoers will ask for a refund the minute they hear a goo-goo or ga-ga. There's a reason bottle service at the club has nothing to do with Gerber. And, last but certainly not least, there's a reason you can't comfortably do the running man while wearing a baby bjorn.

Let's not forget dining out. I will savor doing it without someone who wants to re-enact the "Animal House" food fight every time we sit down for a meal. If I can do it in a restaurant where you can hear wineglasses clinking, not balloon animals squeaking, even better. Sorry, but family restaurants creep me out. Waitresses who have to memorize, not just the song and dance of the menu specials, but an actual song and dance? That's just inhumane, which explains why the fun terrorists love them so.

Yes, I realize babies aren't babies forever. When they start to form words, however, the uncivilized behavior only worsens. I remember a pool party in which a guest's son loudly asked why the hostess's legs had so many "dents." Babies are party poopers, but toddlers have horrible manners.

It's hard to believe couples willingly welcome these things into their homes. It's even harder to believe we'll be joining them. All in good time, though. We still have some unfinished fun to take care of.

Contact columnist Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.