99 bottles of beer on the wall….

One evening after dinner, but before all the kids were down for the night, James and I had a beer. Okay, a bourbon and coke. Okay two.

We sat there, and smiled at each other. James looked at his drink, then at me, then at the room where the kids were hanging out. “Wouldn’t parenting just be so much easier if you could do it just the tiniest bit drunk all.the.time?”

I knew I had found my soul mate.

I proffered this concept of being-a-tiny-bit-drunk-forever  to a close friend of mine while we were having coffee this week. She didn’t even laugh. She just looked me in the eyes and without pause said “YES”.

I really value my girlfriends.

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My favourite table in all the world.

 

Guys, just to clarify, I don’t think that getting shitfaced on the daily is ideal. That would be messy. And hazardous. And expensive. And your pants might start to really not want to do up (Because of weight gain, not because you suddenly feel like taking off your pants all the time – although that could also be a problem, and potentially ruin a good kids birthday party at Pizza Hut).

What I am talking about is the first third of a high percent beer.  You know, a few sips down when you can look around and really see the good in others. (Yes, sometimes I need the alcohol to facilitate the seeing-of-good- in-others. Let’s just say it’s been a weird f*cking year).

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The perfect amount. 

 

As the conversation went on, we disclosed to each other the recent events of family life. This used to go something like “My son has just started walking!” or “I found this nipple cream that numbs my entire boob so I don’t have to start bottle feeding after all!”

 

Now, however, it’s  more along the lines of “we had such a bad night. We were speeding down the road yelling at each other, all while *teenager*  was sitting in the front dressed as a banana……” (I shit you not) Or  “How much board do you think is reasonable to charge so that you know they won’t end up living in a 9 bedroom house with flatmates that own rats as pets, and only eat old noodles, and can’t afford heating more than two days a week?” Or “Yes, you definitely did the right thing calling the police in that situation” (relevant for conversations with both fellow mothers AND teenage children)

It’s hard NOT to want to come home and pour the elixir of life. 

 

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Me to daughter: “Can you take a photo of me being zen for a piece I’m writing ?”  Her: 

 

When the kids are grumpy, and you have run out of ideas on how to engage with them, that first third of your high percent beer makes all.the.difference. I’m just saying.

It’s at this point you can just stare at them and smile. It will freak them out. You won’t care. You are smiling. They are confused. You are not yelling. They are backing away. If all goes to plan, they will back so far away they’ll be in the next room, ready to bitch about you to their friends online, which is fine with you, because beer.

I’d like to add at this point that my kids are actually pretty fabulous. It’s not too  often I feel the need to pour myself a pint to preserve my sanity.

But every now and then it’s nice to have a shot of tequila while you are cooking the roast chicken.

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“I’m ready for you to take over making dinner now, youngest child. Call it my gift to you. I’ll sit here and have a glass of wine and take photos of you”

The best part is that now the oldest two are legally allowed (okay…MOSTLY legally allowed) to sit down and partake. If I make a margarita and there’s too much (okay, bad example, there’s never too much) they can totally have half a glass. Then we can hang out and watch T.V and talk about life.

Either that or they can drive me to the pub and back because they both have their licences and it’s way cheaper than an Uber.

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Wine and GG (I’m the one with glasses.)

 

My whole point was, life is hard. It’s frowned upon to come home and pop a Quaalude. Sometimes it’s nice to parent with a little beer on the side. I’m not saying it’s a good time to write emails to their teachers, drive them anywhere, or agree to matching tattoos, but it’s nice ya’ll.

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The Mexican Banana. 

Cheers to you. And cheers to me. And cheers to the tough years, may we survive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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3 Comments Add yours

  1. Michelle says:

    Halloo! You ARE still blogging, I have no doubt missed a shitload of posts because I have been using bloglovin to try to manage my blog reading. But it keeps shoving fashion and beauty articles at me which I try to ignore but meanwhile they drown out the blogs I really do want to read! Argh! Right, you’re coming with me back to wordpress.

    On this post, I haven’t technically got teenagers yet but my just-turned-8-year-old I swear is a teenager in attitude already. He is by far the biggest source of drama in our house. He’s an awesome kid of course and I love him to bits, but some days I’d like to donate him to the circus.
    And I was chatting with a mate just the other day about the acceptable time for cracking that first beer – she has three kids; 2 under 2 plus a very high-needs 8 year old, so I’m like, any time of day it’s beer o’clock somewhere in the world. Just to take that edge off… it’s medicinal, for sure.
    PS I’m glad you said which one you were in the photo, I honestly couldn’t tell. I’m not surprised your kids get peeved. Haha!!

    Like

    1. Haha, so glad you found me again! It’s still actually the exact same blog, all the old posts are in there somewhere haha. I agree, I think 8am is acceptable to crack a beer. I am yet to find anyone that wants to drink with me at that time however…

      Like

      1. Michelle says:

        I’d totally drink earlier, it’s just that I get a headache and want to go to sleep if I drink any earlier than, say, 4pm. Which is strange because I don’t usually get hangovers. Well at least I didn’t used to…

        Liked by 1 person

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