This weekend, my husband was left with the girls as I trekked six hours north to bid farewell to a very dear soulless ginger joining the Navy. This was the third time in the past ten months (or longer) that I had been away from my offspring for more than two hours, and the very first time I had been gone for a full twenty four hours. I am not sure how I managed to get such a wonderful husband to allow me to do so. I honestly don’t think he realized how much Caroline screams when he said I could go. Five minutes after I left, I am sure he was regretting saying yes.
Finding a balance between parenting and a social life is quite difficult. “I want to spend every single hour of every day being puked on and yelled at by my children” said no one ever. I found myself doing just that, and as much as I love my girls, I was starting to become that parent. You know. The one that refers to herself as “mom” in every situation. The one that uses terms such as tippy, diapies, and hoo-ha more frequently than the Ying Yang Twins say yeah! and what!? in the first fifteen seconds of every song. The one that updates the entire world of EVERY single pound gained, and every minute milestone met. My biggest debates were on whether or not a two year old should wear clothes outdoors all the time, and let me tell you what, she has a well thought out thesis for her reasoning.
I am not one to say that I deserve a break. I chose to procreate, even if it was by accident. My duty is to make sure they survive with all of their fingers and toes, and a good head on their shoulders. But, I also think that not allowing yourself a night out or even fifteen minutes away, you are setting yourself up for resentment towards your children and/or your spouse. I sometimes get jealous that Alex gets to go to work on a daily basis. I would love to try my hand at mechanics on heavy equipment. Unfortunately the only thing I know about mechanics is that you can’t beat shit with a hammer until it works.
So, I went out, and poor Alex was left with a two year old that barks at the neighbor’s dogs for fun, and a screaming three and a half month old with a pure fear of that bearded man. Luckily, he was left at his parent’s, so he wasn’t totally doomed to insanity.
It was so good to see some of my dearest and oldest friends, and we rallied hard. I enjoyed the company of old friends, made some new, and stumbled my way from one bar to the next. At one point I even laid in the grass for a good twenty minutes. I adored seeing how much each of us had changed and grown. Good friends hold your hair while you puke. My friends hand express milk out of my rock hard boobs when I am too drunk to do so. Such is life.
After spending too much, laughing too hard and drinking straight out of pitchers, I was hungover and missing everything about my children, down to the poopy butt of Caroline. I loved getting to go out and act my age, but I love my little family far too much to do that on a regular basis. Plus, my friends could drink me under the table any day. And have you ever dealt with a baby hungover? It’s like trying to describe a rainbow to a blind person.
I may have missed out on my early twenties in the bar scene, but I can appreciate my life how it’s laid out. Being a parent is like dealing with drunk people every day. My kids are clumsy, they slur their words (or can’t even talk), they puke on a weekly basis, they piss their pants, and they have the hardest time keeping all of their clothes on. I wish I could cut them off from whatever was making them act this way, little belligerent fools.