Why Mummy Shouldn’t Drink!

The most expensive part of raising my 3 delightful but equally challenging children is the quantity of Prosecco and Gin it takes! And oh boy did it take a lot!

You know you have found the right tribe when your friend texts to say she needs alcohol and will be arriving prompt. I had spent the last half an hour hoping the glass in my hand would serve as notice to my husband and little darlings that Mum’s on strike, no such luck, parental duties only cease when guests start arriving. The uncharacteristically quick reply fails to signal the urgency for my shift to be over; at this point our friendship is dependent on her rescuing me early. Bless her heart, she messages back worried she’s not dressed up, evidently she has forgotten who she is speaking to; bearing in mind I’m still recovering from “Pantsgate”!

One by one my friends arrived and what followed was a night spent surrounded by strong Mothers who as the drinks flowed began to relish their well-earned night off. Not only enjoying the Gin and Prosecco but also being called by their own names rather than so and so’s Mum for the evening. Conversation moved from parenting to husbands to pinafores and everything in between. Copious units of alcohol were drank and the night was spent laughing so hard I wished I had taken practising my kegel exercises more seriously.

On Saturday, the blinds remained shut, if ever there was an “I just can’t parent today day” Saturday was it. Put simply I was let’s say rather delicate. The noise, oh man the thunderous noise! Up until this point I was still questioning if the world was spinning or me. I made the mistake of uttering this out loud, never the best idea when your eldest son is a junior mastermind, what followed was an extremely long winded lecture as to how the world is always spinning and how stupid my comment was.

The absolute peak of my torture however, was still to come as he introduced me to my very own autistic Doc McStuffins! Having studied this strange, limp, groaning beast that mildly resembled what was his Mother for a while, my mastermind took it upon himself to google my visible symptoms. After some precious, unscathed moments of peace he announced loudly and ever so cheerfully that he had some questions for me to answer. Reluctant but realising refusal was futile and desperately hoping that participating would make this torture stop I resigned myself to diagnostics.

Was I tired? Wincing at memories of Matt scolding me at 4:30 am after I over enthusiastically belly flopped in to bed in a fit of giggles simultaneously catapulting my poor sleeping husband air bound come flooding back. I didn’t find myself nearly as hilarious on waking 2 hours later to instant karma as littlest clambered all over my already aching body. In response to Caleb’s was I tired question; “mmm hmmm” was all I could muster.

Am I suffering from a headache or muscle aches? Despite every limb in my body telling me to grab chocolate and lock myself in the toilet here I still lay enduring an interrogation Frost would be proud of. Stumbling down the stairs this morning had me convinced that gravity did indeed hate me and my current aches had me questioning if i could even stand straight. As for headache, the boxes instructions state take 2 and keep away from children, enough said! All too aware applying an out of order sticker on my head wouldn’t stop him and would also require effort, i reply with a one worded “yes” and we continued.

Did I feel really hungry or sick? Should I mention the magnitude of devastation I felt at discovering Matt had chucked out all last night’s left over pizza and the feta and spinach parcels I’m now ravenous for. I’m still not entirely convinced this wasn’t revenge for his red eye flight! Telling a 9 year old I’m indecisively simmering between craving stodge and contemplating a tactical chunder didn’t seem appropriate even for me!

Do I have an increased sensitivity to lights/noise? Having spent the morning failing to shield myself from their ear piercing squeals and rowdy behaviour I had already come to the conclusion that hangovers get worse not only with age but per child! My darling husband not only seemed to be encouraging the noise but rather infuriatingly delighting in my suffering. I make a mental note to give the kids permission to stand on him next time he only makes it as far as the bathroom floor after a night out. The truth is I don’t want sympathy, no cuddles, no diagnosis I just want to curl up in foetal position in my dark hole and survive the day. So that would be another “yes” then.

Unfortunately, despite my sons best well-meant intentions, he failed to read: leave to fester until they are ready to resurface anywhere. So I am inserting it here! Anyway, having conclusively exhausted both myself and his line of enquiry we sit in much sought after silence as he collated his evidence and pensively analysed his findings. After careful consideration he proudly announces “Mummy, I have a diagnosis… you are suffering from hangoveritis!” No shit Sherlock!!

This weekend I learned that the true pain of a hangover is not truly felt until you know what it feels like to be both hungover and still Mum. With that being said, Ladies it was fab; same time next month?!