One of my best friends recently said to me, "Your life scares the crap out of me." I wasn't offended; in fact, my own life gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Let's start with the fact that I’m 28, married with children, and have a mortgage. Player, please, no one does that shit anymore. I'm like a child bride who should have her own show on TLC, judging by modern-day NY standards.
This is only part of the reason why I’m the drunken disaster when we all drink together.
If the trend of naming your kids based on some significance of conception is hip, well, my two lovely little boys could have been named after Jose and Cuervo.
I've been unsuccessful in my attempts to get one of my three close gal pals knocked up; I really wanted some kind of pregnancy pact like a group of Kentucky middle-school girls. So, I am now always the only person with a Sippy cup next to my bottle of Hoegaarden at a BBQ. And the only one who has to explain to my four year old that there’s no such thing as Juice Pong, or that the liquor-filled ice luge isn’t meant to have Matchbox cars careening down it. Hey, PTA moms, what’s up?
Having kids hasn't changed my relationships at all; in fact, I've been crowned with a new, even better position: I'm the Drunk Mom, and my friends enjoy the fact that they now have someone who can go fetch a cold one out of the fridge at a dinner party.
While there's no collection of sponges in my home, there is an unlimited stock of pregnancy tests, wine, coffee and cigarettes. I'm filled with advice on life and love, since I have totally BTDT (been there, done that). I'm like the neighborhood Planned Parenthood, but much more posh, and you will never see wacky Right-Wingers protesting outside my home -- well, not yet, anyway.
When I'm drunk, I'm on vacation from being a mom. My shift has ended, and I am now like a tax-write-off dependent and my friends are my guardians. They have made me sign legal docs stating that when they succumb to motherhood, I shall remember the days when they held my hair back -- do the same for them.
While I joke about drinking daily, ("Hey guys! It's Margarita Monday/Tequila Tuesday/Whine-Down Wednesday), I truly only imbibe once in a blue moon. But when I do, I sort of expect Dr. Drew to show up and drag me to his Pasadena Recovery Center. I'd totally go, because I find Dr. Drew sexy. I just fear I would end up on the roof in moon boots and a Kimono or some shit. But I digress.
Recently, I was drunk and giving hugs and kisses to my friends as they left my home. It had been a night of debauchery and after I released my friend from a joyous hug, I ended up falling backwards, heels up in the air, into my son’s toy-filled playpen. (Hey, CPS, no child was in the playpen. Kthxbye.)
Before helping me out, my friends did what any good, decent-hearted people would do: they took pictures with their iPhones.
I don’t know if anyone knows this, but getting out of a playpen as a grown adult is quite a challenge. Like, it should be a new Olympic event. Anyway, when I received the picture the next day, I immediately felt awful. What mom falls into a playpen, drunk?
I was ashamed, until one of my friends pointed out that being a good mom also means letting go once in a while in a safe environment and that every woman desires to indulge every so often. She was right.
There’s nothing wrong with baking peanut-free/egg-free/wheat-free (seriously, what the FUCK is with these new allergies??) tasteless cupcakes for a school event and being Mom of the Year AND having a drunken night once every Fiscal quarter. I mean, helllllooooooo! Women were built to multi-task, no?
If you still don't agree, remember that no one ever dares to shun a father who drinks too much at a Yankee game or, you know, a baptism. No one ever says, “What a horrible father.” Instead, people are more likely to say he’s stressed from work and needs a break.
Well, so do moms.
I don’t sit on a throne of moral superiority of trying to be the greatest mother of all time, minding my Ps and Qs (unless you’re counting Pina Coladas and Quebec Cocktails). Nope, I’m too busy planning when I can act a fool again.
To all mothers -- remember: cheers, not tears.