A Day In The Life Of a Hungover Mum

Since becoming a mother there are things that I have definitely improved at; wiping bottoms, multitasking, functioning on three hours sleep and making giraffes out of Play Doh to name just a few. There are also things that I have become considerably worse at - for example socialising and arriving anywhere on time. But at the very top of my list of failings is my ability to hold my drink like I once could. I'm not sure if it's my age, my hormones or lack of practice. All I know is that my days of boogying on down for so long on a Saturday night that I'd often see the sun rise over the top of Lidl as I staggered home are long, long gone. These days a night out requires weeks of planning, hours of fruitless beautifying and, in most cases, I'm usually tucked up back home with a Dixy Chicken by the time the clock strikes midnight anyway.

Still, every now and then I do believe that a good blow out can be a positive thing. Spending time with actual adult humans and letting your hair down can be lots of fun, especially when fishbowls and Beyonce tracks are involved. But there is always a price to pay for such merriment. This is how the aftermath of a typical (rare) night out usually unfolds for me.

7am: Wake up feeling surprisingly sprightly. No sign of sickness or headache. Just the warm, fuzzy glow of an excellent night out. Wake sleeping boyf to inform him that 'I still got it' before conking back out into fitful slumber, totally oblivious to the fact that I'm still half pissed.

10am: Oh no. It's begun. The second awakening brings the full wrath of hangover hell. The room is spinning, my stomach is gurgling like a blocked drain and someone appears to be playing bass guitar in the depths of my skull. Then the flashbacks begin. Did I really call that bouncer a 'beardy twat'? Did I actually get low, low, low, low on the advice of Flo-Rida? Why did I feel it necessary to stop for a battered sausage interlude in between bars? Surely it wasn't me who ended the night weeping to a bunch of long haired, eighteen year old girls in the toilets because 'I want to be young again'. Realisation sets in and a small part of my dignity is lost forever.

10:15am: Seek sympathy and cuddles from boyf while exploring the possibility of him fetching me a Mcmuffin. Find that sympathy is minimal. Apparently he is cross because I shouted 'stop crushing my spirit, you spirit crusher' at him in the street when he suggested calling it a night at 3am.

11am: Nausea has ranked up a gear. Mcmuffin is no longer a viable option. Stomach is a grotesque curdle-fest of wine, cider, VK Apple and Baileys (?!?!) with that rancid battered sausage floating around in the mix too. A scene similar to something I once saw on The Exorcist ensues.

12pm: Grandparents will be dropping child off imminently. Must try and regain composure by washing crusty eye make up away and brushing teeth several times. The exertion of trying to act normal has broken me and I have to have another lie down. Boyf deals with handover. Hear my mother tut on the doorstep and mutter something along the lines of 'pathetic, at her age' but can't summon the energy to feel ashamed.

2pm: Child is bored and feral. I have made it downstairs and am slumped helplessly on the settee. He senses my weakness so naturally he tears the house apart while singing Frere Jacques at the top of his voice. Boyf is playing Football Manager and is still grumpy. The cat has pooed in his litter tray and nobody is doing anything about it. Everything is dire.

Mother is suffering...therefore it is my duty to be at my peak of annoyingness. 

2:30pm: Make the bold and somewhat rash decision to go to the park. Child will burn off energy and the fresh air will do me good. Round up the troops, I can do this!

3pm: I can't do this. This becomes obvious very quickly. Child wants me to chase him and push him and seesaw with him. All of this is beyond my capability. My feet are blistered and my legs are aching with lactic acid. I desperately want to lie down on the park bench but I'm wearing my scruffiest mum hoody and haven't brushed my hair today so could easily be mistaken for a vagrant which would do nothing for my dwindling self esteem. After a full 12 minutes it's time to admit defeat and slump back to the depths of the toilet bowl where I belong.

5:30pm: Is it bedtime yet?

6pm: Time for social media damage limitation. Cringe at drunken tweets, delete Facebook status that reads 'TONIGHT we're drinking from the bottle!!!' and de-tag any photo taken after 11pm. Get cross and ranty about the ridiculous fact that clubs now employ photographers to upload pictures of drunken revellers to Facebook. Why is this a thing? This should not be a thing. Surely it is a flagrant breach of my human rights to have pictures of me cranking dat to Soulja Boi on the internet without my consent. Scroll past said pics hurriedly and pray my work colleagues/fellow pre-school parents never stumble upon them.

7pm: Physically I'm recovering but now the booze blues have taken hold and self loathing is in full swing. I hate myself. I'm a disgrace. I'm a parent now and while all of the other Instagram mums have spent their Sundays baking, crafting and taking country walks with their little ones, I've been comatose on the sofa breathing toxic fumes and eating Cheese Strings. Feel deeply ashamed and vow to become a better person. Start googling chia and juice cleanses in order to become healthier and happier.

8pm: Am ravenous. Sod chia. Ring Chinese.

8:45pm: Stuff egg fried rice and curry sauce into my face until I find my happy place.

9pm: Climb into bed sorrowfully, ignoring fake tan stains. Vow never to drink again.

Please tell me it's not just me.

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