“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.
The mother of all hangovers
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