Due to an unfortunate Friday evening encounter with a large amount of pub-quality Pinot Grigio, I woke up Saturday morning with a hangover (don’t judge me!). It was a moderate level hangover, since I am a middle-aged mother, so even a wild night of partying ends at a “reasonable” hour and does not include anything stronger than wine. None the less, I started Saturday morning with a mouth-full-of-cotton balls, a wicked headache, and a dizziness that only got worse when my feet hit the floor.
All over my neighbourhood there were likely university students and singletons suffering a similar fate, but while they were able to lie in bed until the world stopped spinning and then wobble their way to a sofa, I was up with the robins because my youngest wanted to make me french toast. To her credit, it really was good french toast; not too soggy, not to burnt. But it was still an egg creation, landing harshly in a belly still half-full of greasy Friday night nachos. And it was cooked in a VERY bright kitchen.
Being a mom with a hangover is a form of torture for which there is no escape. There are no state secrets you can reveal to make it stop and no international organizations to which you may seek asylum. Everything is LOUD and involves motion. People keep asking questions: “What time is basketball?”; “Where are the car keys?”; “Did you add ketchup to the grocery list?”. I used to know the answers but on this day it is all so overwhelming. I want to cancel all activities, hide the car keys, and erase the nauseating image of squirting ketchup from my mind. When asked “How many days until March Break?” I practically break into tears from the stress of trying to perform mental math.
And then there is the grocery store! So bright… so loud… so filled with happy neighbours who holler ‘hellos’ and want to make chit-chat about the weather. And there is so much raw meat; dead cow parts staring up at me as I struggle to remember why I’m not a vegetarian.
In the middle of the day I manage to persuade my youngest to curl up on the sofa with me “for fun” and watch an episode of The Gilmore Girls. For about half an hour, there is peace and quiet. The tap dancers in my head take a break and that just-got-off-the-roller-coaster feeling subsides. I consider turning this into a Gilmore Girls marathon and selling it as a mother-daughter bonding activity but guilt kicks in. Outside, the sun is shining. A “good” mother would be digging skates out of the attic and heading to an outdoor rink somewhere, or loading toboggans into the ass-end of the station wagon and hitting the nearest hill. A “good” mother would have a pot of chili on the stove and would not be considering a drive-thru dinner.
And so I drag my sad, dehydrated butt off the comfy sofa and back onto my self-imposed pedestal. I paste a smile on my face and throw myself, full-force into the rest of my Saturday, because that is what “good” mothers must do… even with a hangover!