Pre-child intoxication consisted of twenty shots and a black out, in which you pretended to be Beyoncé and called yourself “hot stuff” in a grimy bathroom mirror, whilst smeared in lipstick. I often say there are two versions of myself, like Queen Bey I have an alter ego- let’s call her Sasha Not so Fierce, drunken me. Ruiner of friendships and eater of kebabs. After having kids my rate of getting drunk significantly decreased and I pretty much identity as tee-total. However, there is the odd occasion where Sasha Not So Fierce gets the better of me.
At the start of the night, one cradles a glass of wine tentatively. You think of a 7am wake-up with a hangover and shudder. You can reach the magical “two-glass” limit and go home right?
Your two glasses are up, you check the time. It’s 11pm and you feel a bit guilty for having fun. You have children, fun isn’t on the menu. You should probably go home soon. You are starting to fancy Dave in the comedy hat.
Some jester brings a tray of acid green shots to the table. You haven’t done this in a long time. Fuck it you never get to have fun …You deserve it.
Five shots down and Sasha Not So Fierce rears her lipstick smeared head. You start to tell Dave about how you ex is a bastard. You start to tell everyone how your ex is a bastard.
Then comes out the phone. You shove very uninteresting pictures of your children in strangers faces, fully convinced that they want to see. They say “Aww how cute” as you go through snaps from 2018 to 2014.
“This was my little treasure dressed as a bumblebee! He could be a model you know.”
You then end up gushing about how you “love your babies so much” to anyone who will listen. Followed by a slurp of red wine. It seems instead of being sensible you decide to make up for lost time. Sasha is thirsty, she doesn’t get out much.
When all is said and done you go home, the babysitter/family member leaves and you crash into bed.
7am and a tiny little hand smacks you in the face. You drag yourself out of bed and fumble with the remote until CBeebies comes on. Cereal bars are shoved on the table and you tear apart the kitchen looking for painkillers. Now you remember why you stopped drinking so much post parenthood. There’s no lying in bed with a box of chicken nuggets and self pity the next day. Time to put Sasha away again.