This past weekend I was overserved. (Let’s forget for a minute that I totally made those margaritas and served myself.) But it was Cinco de Mayo! And I live in Texas now! And we had a party at our house!
Y’aaaaaalllll. NONE of these reasons matter. Next time please remind me that my limit is one margarita. ONE. I am allowed to have beers after that. BUT ONLY ONE MARGARITA.
Apologies for being ALL CAPSY. But being hungover when you are the caretaker of small children is THE WORST. Babysitters of the world–I need you to swoop in and take charge on Seis de Mayo. I promise you will be well compensated. (Hold my beer while I speed dial the babysitter and see what she says when I try to book her a year out.)
As a wise mother told a friend of mine, “You haven’t had a hangover until you’ve had one with kids.” Truth lady. TRUTH.
This all coincides so nicely with our 22 month old deciding that he is officially TWO. By that I mean that in the past week or two, he is all of a sudden pulling full-fledged-throw-my-tiny-body-on-the-floor-and-screaming-the-second-I-am-told-no-or-I-don’t-get-what-I-want-within-the-half-second-that-I-demand-it. Which is really pretty un-fun when you are stone cold sober, and really head-rattlingly awful when you are nursing one of the worst hangovers of your thirties. (Also, kids or no, hangovers get worse as you get older. No one tells you that.)
I never set an alarm. My alarm is a tiny human who wakes up screaming for me every. single. day. Apparently, my husband had made the decision before we went to bed on Friday night that he would be in better shape to get up with the kids the next morning. And bless him for that. While I was snoozing, our kids who get to watch one ten-minute show in the morning, usually Thomas the Train (There’s two, there’s four, there’s six, there’s eight, Shunting trucks and hauling freights!), were given the go ahead to “just turn on another one!” And another. And another. And that is 100% FINE. Sometimes TV means that everyone is happy and quiet for a few minutes when it is sorely needed.
When I woke up and managed to get downstairs and put a coffee cup in my hand, it dawned on me that later that afternoon, we would have approximately ten 4-6 year old boys running through our house. Plus their families. I reached for the Advil. T-ball season was coming to a close and we had offered to host the team for dinner after the game that evening. No big deal! Two parties in less than 24 hours! I got this! (Someone please get my head examined).
We went out to lunch hoping a square meal would make us feel more human. Waitress rolls up with our food, and my not-quite-two-year-old immediately goes off the deep end. Why? Who knows!?! I spend what feels like an eternity walking him around outside in the very hot sun attempting to explain that eggs taste way better when they are warm.
Once Townes settles down, we gulp down our food and ask for the check because we know he could turn on a dime. Home and quick naps for all of us before the T-ball game. Next up, a couple hours out at the fields with the Houston sun beating down, when all I wanted to do was crawl under the bleachers. Then race home for some last minute party prep before the team arrives.
Have you ever imagined Lord of the Flies enacted by 5 year olds? Oh, then you weren’t at my house on Saturday evening, obviously. Semi-feral shirtless boys running around outside, then racing upstairs to ransack Elliott’s toy stash, then back outside, but not before smearing icing on every available surface and leaving a trail of Cheetos in their wake. I played it cool and tried to participate in adult conversations with the parents, their names and details I probably won’t recall as I had one eye on Townes the Terrible Almost Two the entire time.
Here’s the thing: You don’t fantasize about hungover days of yore (i.e. pre-kids). No one WANTS to be hungover. But those days when you felt so terrible, and you had the luxury to just lay on the couch all day, drink your Vitamin Water, watch a few movies, take a snooze–remember those? The luxury of being responsible for only you and your own bad decisions? No longer. There’s no pressing pause on the needs and wants of the tiny folk that now share your space. So pass the painkillers, re-up the coffee, and remind me next time: ONLY ONE MARGARITA.