The words parent and adulting or parent and tequila, cocktails and Prosecco should NEVER EVER be uttered in sequence in the same sentence, like ever. Therefore, one must assume that being a parent and pouring the above cocktail down your throat over a period of several hours is the stupidest thing I have ever done… STOP, you there, parent of three rambunctious tiny men, do not partake in the consumption of adult libations. ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? Yup, yes I am, and the shameful thing is, that through out the course of my currently 8 year mothering phase, I have repeated this mistake a good few times. Each time I want to grab, happy, dancing, drunk, mama off the party train and make that train reverse back over her several time, just too remind that mad bitch lurking inside her… THAT……
SHE IS (OLD) FORTY.
SHE IS A MOTHER OF THREE.
SHE IS AND WILL ALWAYS BEEN A LARRY LIGHTWEIGHT.
SHE MUST NEVER DRINK MORE THAN THREE DRINKS
HER PARENTS DO NOT LIVE IN THIS COUNTRY (no last minute babysitting request for you, you dumb ass, light weight)
AND OH….
YOU ARE A BLOODY MOTHER OF THREE (we never sleep in, we are always running amok and hollering as LOUD as we can, whilst being extremely needy and totally incapable of leaving you alone, while you die in the darkness, under your duvet) BOYS.
BUT….
The big kid, grown up, party in the city was oh so fun, we danced, we drunk cocktails, we danced, we did shots, we danced and we laughed, we went to bed at 2.30 am (gasp, I have only ever seen that time to administer love and attention to a small frightened, occasionally vomiting child), after a tactical vomit, I realize life has just been far too much fun this evening for said, naughty, insensible parent.
However, as the sun blossoms searingly over the horizon. Iām peeling apart my mascara caked eyes, shifting my aching, dancing legs and blearily peeking in to the bath room mirror. I sigh, as I look upon a, not so beautiful now, aging parent, who is hungover and is now painfully regretting her (this mama, does not party often) excitement of last night. The head ache BOOMS, the stomach churns and the room is a little hazy. Flopping back on to the warm bed, staring at the oh so quiet ceiling, I know that a mere, 12 painfully loud, busy, unending hours separate me from resuming this position and getting to shut my throbbing eyes once more.
Survival mode kicks in. 30 minute run (kill or cure time), Bagel, Coffee, Tylenol, sunglasses and a shower. Provide each child with own I pad, and a family sized pack of Cheerios. Another parent fail (I currently do not give a flying F) I let them melt their brains, just so you know they will leave you well alone.
Remember to repeat as needed and chant the words “NEVER AGAIN”.
Well, until next time š
Entirely Unlike Tea 