It always seems like a great idea at the time doesn’t it? Going for a few cheeky drinky poos with friends. Only a couple though because you have to get up at ridiculous o’clock in the morning with the baby!
One more? Umm I shouldn’t really but oh go on then I will have one more……….ugh!
How does this happen? Well it’s obvious really. There’s something fantastical about going out and not having a rugrat biting on your ankles as you’re trying to have a conversation. Something stupendous about the fact that you can go to the toilet on your own, brush your hair and put your lipstick on (gents included). Something phenomenal about the way you can have a drink without it going all over your outfit! And as you’re obviously having such an amazing time you’d like it to continue, even though your ‘mummy conscience’ is screaming ‘Nooooo! Stop it! Go to bed you silly woman you’re up in four hours’!
This weekend was no exception and I had the incredible misfortune not to listen to the sensible side of my brain as I decided to just ‘try’ a cheeky vodka or three!
Oh dear me. Deary deary me.
Friday. That was an interesting day. Really interesting. So interesting that I really don’t think I can ever drink again!
It began like a scene from ‘Shaun of the Dead’ – smelling like a brewery and a small fat man screaming in the distance. I knew almost immediately that I could not be in charge of a baby until I’d had some form of medication; my head was banging like a pneumatic drill! I had to stagger to the medicine cupboard and take a Brufen 600! The biggest baddest painkiller we possessed – that’ll do nicely. Well, I say that but it didn’t even seem to touch the tempest raging in my skull.
As I have been told that I seem to be slightly schardenfraudian, imagine my delight upon discovering my husband in a similar world of pain as I! Brilliant. If you’re going to be rough it’s much better to have someone writhing in the quagmire of doom with you isn’t it? It makes it slightly more bearable surely? There was only one problem…he had to go out and leave me with the two boys!! What? Aaargh! You must be joking? I couldn’t even speak let alone deal with the Tasmanian Devils!
So I assumed the only position that I was capable of: I lay on the floor. Thus enabling said children to: crawl all over me, pull my hair, wipe snot on my face and generally have a jolly good time abusing mummy.
It didn’t get any better than this, even when my husband returned a couple of hours later. He felt absolutely shocking as well and we proceeded to have a day of doom! Shaun of the Dead pretty much summed us up to be honest.
It was of course, all self inflicted and nobody will ever have any sympathy for us but my goodness, it’s hard to nurse a hangover with small children. Really really hard.
Does this mean that I should never drink again? Wait until the boys are capable of wiping their own bottoms and noses before I partake in a lovely cocktail or two? Or at least wait until they wake up at a more reasonable hour in the morning? Yep, I think so. Definitely. The only problem is we’re going for a steak tonight and it does go so well with a large glass of red!