Ughh, I am never drinking again… like seriously… NEVER!
I don’t know many grown adults who haven’t muttered these words at some point in their lives. Like by continually lying to ones self is part of the grieving process of a hangover.
I was ridiculously excited by the prospect of going out on Saturday night. It’s all I talked about for over a week. I fantasied about spending time getting dressed up, about doing my hair, by that I mean drying it and I wondered about the menu of the new restaurant we were going to try. I hadn’t been “out” in a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time; I think it may have been my wedding day. It was long overdue and I was desperate to let my hair down. Take off my mum hat and hang out with some girl friends, drink wine, eat some good food and just have a night off!
I woke up early on Saturday morning. Sorry “woke” implies I slept on Friday night, which I certainly did not. Scarlett my daughter who has never been a great sleeper decided that before I would get my night off she would make sure I did double the work the evening before. The girl did good managing to sleep the entire night in 40-minute increments, waking for god knows what and needing to be resettled. Had she reverted back to being a newborn after nearly 11 months? Was she trying to break up my dinner date? She was trying her best to guilt me into not going out. Testing my will. Punishing me for wanting to spend an evening out of her company.
With burning red eyes I briefly contemplate pulling out of the evenings event. The girls would understand; they all have kids. No. I couldn’t, I needed this!
And this was not just any night out. It was birthday celebration for a dear friend who had recently moved back to the UK after 5 years living in Australia. It would be like old times, friends reunited. It would just have to be a lot of make up and a stiff drink while getting ready to get me in the mood.
We met at the restaurant for 7:30pm; actually 4 out of the 7 of us meet at the restaurant at 7:30. Three arrive much later after a wardrobe melt down delays their arrival by 45mins. But that didn’t bother us we were free! No kids clambering on top of us, no wailing to attend to, just some fine wine, well a bottle of the finest “house” wine, and good banter. The conversation naturally was kids led, there is 10 of the little blighters between us all and one on the way and we don’t get out much as a group! It would sound like dull conversation to the other restaurant goers but nothing is better than understanding your not alone in this struggle called parenting and finding out you’re all in the same boat does ease the stress of it all. The food was good and the conversation flowed faster and higher pitched as the wine kept coming. That waiter was clever. A group of 7 women and I couldn’t get to the bottom of my wine glass before it was topped up again.
I blame him.
That’s how we lost track and ended up 5 bottles in by 10 o’clock. All giddy with excitement AKA tipsy, we didn’t want the night to come to an end! We try and talk ourselves in and out of the idea of going somewhere for ‘One More” and the idea of “One More” wins. Realising that most of our old haunts had either closed down or been turned into restaurants it left only the local pub. And it’s a wild local pub at that. A place frequented by us in our more youthful days, it was the place to kick off a Saturday night before heading into town.
And it hadn’t changed a bit. We had. The pub and its clientele hadn’t. On entering we were stunned at how young everyone was!! One friend remarks that she could have given birth to most of the people in there. Undeterred and unwilling to call the night over we head to the bar. I almost felt obliged to order a blue wicked in honor of my 18-year-old self. I don’t, that would be ridiculous! I order a jager bomb instead. Joking, I’m not that crazy, although the thought did cross my mind. But it was only 10pm. That’s the kind of drink reserved for the insane part of me that thinks it’s a good idea much later on in the night.
We take our drinks and try and find a place to dance/stand. By the time we find a clearing I’m wearing half of my drink as the crowds of Taylor Swift looking girls and bearded man-child boys jostle and dance to be noticed by each other. Since when did it become acceptable to walk around without disregard for the people around you?! Oh right that’s called drunk. Which we all are by the time we stager out of the pub at midnight.
Already we start to regret this decision to extend the evening as we struggle to get taxis in the cold. Collectively we hatch a plan. We would go to our friend’s house near by and she would wake her husband up and make him ferry 6 of his wife’s inebriated friends home. Great plan! I’m sure he was thrilled with the idea. I jump in the first taxi….erm sorry I mean Husband Cab and arrive home around 1am.
On waking I utter the obligatory NEVER DRINKING AGAIN mantra. My husband remarks I look like an Egyptian with my heavy black eye make up smeared across my face so I hop in the shower to sort that out asap. I am handed a naked baby mid way through the shower and realise I may have had the night off but duties as a Mum resume regardless of a hangover. Fair enough.
Now hangovers were bad enough in my twenties. I used to write the entire day off to feeling sorry for myself and feeding myself better. I think having kids is a great tool to cut back on nights out. Because there is no way you would survive a weekly hangover with children. There is just no way!
I have a substantial breakfast washed down with lots of coffee and a couple of paracetamol and crack on with the day. Mum hat back on I scan some recipe books for inspiration for this evenings dinner. I give Scarlett free reign on the toilet rolls to gain 5 minutes of peace to compile a shopping list.
With my shopping list written I head to the local supermarket. This should be fun.
F@*K I have forgotten the list! I left it on the side whilst loading the baby and the hoards of gear I need to cart around with me wherever I go into the car. Oh and the reusable shopping bags. I never remember the shopping bags! Can’t blame that on the hangover.
I wander around the aisles aimlessly trying to find inspiration and end up buying a load of random crap. I selected the shortest line to pay for my groceries and instantly regret my choice as I realise I have picked a “talker”. I am not in the mood for polite chat about my weekend and I don’t need a hand with my packing. I have two perfectly good hands to do it myself. But I can’t be rude. Its just not in my nature so I just direct the conversation his way and ask how long he has left on his shift and when he is in work next. With his rota for the next week sorted I make my way to the car, wrestle with the shopping bags and a crying child who hates her car seat and I am on my way back to the safety of home. Success!
I nearly make it to the front door without any major dramas when Scarlett my lovable daughter projectile vomits all over herself and the car seat, and the front passenger seat, oh and the foot well. Nice. I put her straight in the bath as the smell almost makes me sick and she gets a full hose down and costume change.
I had a genius idea whilst I was out shopping to buy some pull up nappies. My daughter is at that point where to lay her down to change her nappy is like the worst thing you can do to her, along with wiping her permanently snotty nose. These nappies were going to solve all my problems, put an end to our fighting!
A couple of hours later I discover that these nappies wouldn’t be the saving grace I had hoped they would be, in fact they would turn out to be another minor disaster of the day. What I hadn’t accounted for was how you change a pull up nappy full of poo………surely I couldn’t just pull it down?! What ensued was a two-man operation to carefully cut the nappy off without flinging crap all over the room. Scarlett did her best to remain true to form and kick her legs, try to get on all fours and scream and cry throughout the whole process which ended in another trip to the bath for another hose down. I have since learnt that pull on nappies actually rip down the sides quite easily! Why don’t they write that on the flipping package? Or have it in big letters down the side of the pants saying: tear along this dotted line in an emergency. Don’t pampers know that in the process of growing a baby it dissolved my brain? Another lesson learnt.
Exhausted, I abandon the healthy eating strategy and a wholesome meal for the evening goes out of the window. Faced with a fridge full of food I opt for the cake in a box that reads “open to temptation?” I most certainly was open to temptation and the cake was only ever going to be the right option on a day like today and a take away for dinner. Might as well since I have already gone down the cake route.
Wounded by the day’s events I pray for 8pm when I can put an end to the suffering and follow my daughter to bed. It’s a good thing having kids limits your ability to party of a weekend because when the fun is over the hangover is so much worse.
However the release was necessary and having had “let go” for one night I can shelve the idea for at least another six months or however long it takes to forget that going out and partying like the younger me is not a good idea.
I can’t wait for next Saturday when I’m hangover free back on the cups of tea. x