I am confident that I am a dramatically better mother when I am a bit pissed. My tolerance for the shambolic idiocy of The Boys is at its peak, I believe, after exactly two pints of Peroni. I will willingly invent my own Pokemon (Sun type, red, sort of triangular with hairy feet, called Campari). I will run (albeit briefly because it makes my knees and tits hurt) pretending to be an Angry Bird, and play I-Spy even though, with the Little One, the answer is always, inexplicably “igloo”. I am, in short, fun Mummy.
Which begs the question, why, in the name of all that is holy, am I doing Dry January? There’s an element of smug self-flagellation, of course. And the slight reassurance that I don’t NEED to drink, though the fact I flatly refuse to see any of my boozy chums until February rolls around doesn’t really suggest I can have a good time sober. I just postpone the good times until I can have a drink. Well, some drinks.
Of course, it’s the children who suffer. No trips to the magical Drinking Shop where after dutifully doing some colouring, they hear the magical phrase “sod it, alright,10 minutes on my phone while Daddy and I have another quick pint”. No, in January, we drag our sorry, sober arses through each weekend, surviving on orange juice and lemonade, industrial quantities of tea and the hazy vision of a condensation-speckled glass of Sancerre getting ever closer.
Yes, I sleep better, make waffles for breakfast and lose the slate-grey complexion that is the hallmark of a truly belting Christmas. But really. Wine is better. As are jaunts to the Drinking Shop, being an Angry Bird, and bellowing “igloo” to squeals of laughter from a fucking delighted three year old.
I should probably try doing those things sober. Meh.
Sons Over the Yardarm 