The mother of all hangovers

“I’m the worst mother ever when I’m hungover,” my friend said to me as we headed out.
“It’s TV and junk food all day for the whole family.”
Ah I remembered the days.
When Master Three or Four would wake me bright and early after a night out.
I’d put The Wiggles on repeat and, when I felt able to drive, take us through Maccas drive through, ordering enough to get us through lunch and dinner.
This was my first real night out post-Li’l Fatty.
He was six months old by now and I therefore hadn’t had a big night for a good 15 months.
“Our curfew is midnight,” my friend said to me determinedly.
“I have to stick to that now. I can’t deal with being a mum with a hangover anymore.”
While the champagne tasted awfully good, I took it pretty easy, staying at least one drink behind my friend all night and sculling water in between.
Breaking her curfew to party on, she gave me a drunken wave as I rode off on my high horse shortly after midnight.
I’d done it.
I was cured.
I could go out and not get shit-faced, a pretty important attribute when you’re a wife-to-be and mother.
The next day I tended to my sons beautifully, feeling little to no effects.
Worst mother ever? Pffffft.
That night Learner Dad and I had a wedding to go to.
Ok, the drink was free here so I drank it a little more, well, freely.
But I was still a bit restrained.
“Drink up slow coach,” a tipsy Learner Dad encouraged me as he hit the dance floor.
The next day I again felt great.
I’d had a few drinks and a good time, got home at a reasonable hour, and was still an A+ mother.
No ‘worst mother ever’ in this house thanks.
So, by the time my brother’s 30th came around the next weekend, I was well and truly in my comfort zone.
“I should be out of form but it’s just not affecting me as much anymore,” I boasted to everyone, as I knocked back a third CC and Dry.
Several champagnes, whiskies and terrible dance moves later, I was sitting in our driveway, threatening to leave Learner Dad if he didn’t carry me inside.
Although the boys were at his parents’ house, I woke before six the next morning.
My head was thumping, my throat parched.
I tried to remember how we’d got home.
What time? Who with? What happened in that last hour?
I remembered this feeling only too well.
While Learner Dad stumbled off in the car to pick up our sons, I pulled myself out of bed and under a shower.
I scrubbed my teeth and gargled mouthwash.
I drank water and ate dry toast.
Then I waited for the invasion, trying to feel human.
‘Fake it til you feel it, fake it til you feel it,’ I breathed quietly.
Learner Dad dropped the boys home and went to work.
I lay on the couch looking at them.
They stared back at me.
The worst mother ever.

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