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A-Rare-Night-Out-A-Mothers-Tale

A Rare Night Out: A Mother's Tale

My sister Fiona asked me back in February what I’d like for my 40th birthday present.

I sat her down, looked her straight in the eyes (I may even have gripped her shoulders) and told her that I would call on her on two occasions in the coming year to babysit and that was the only gift needed. She tried to sway me with promises of makeup and jewellery but I stood my ground and she caved as I produced a legal document and asked for her signature.

It so happened that I had a friend’s 40th this week (it’s like the year of the 1000 21sts all over again except with better clothes and fuller figures). I called Fiona and said “it’s time”. She collected the kids at 5pm and for what seemed like the first time in 8 years, I was alone in the house. I felt like Tom Cruise in Risky business and slid across the floor singing Old Time Rock n’ Roll before her car was out of the driveway.

Instead of calling an escort agency like Tom, I called for a prawn chow mein and chips… all to myself; I watched Netflix and ploughed into my food barely using cutlery, almost hysterical with giddiness.

I then showered like it was 2006...spending 40 minutes on hair treatments and exfoliations.

I sat on my bed and watched TV while manicuring and pedicuring enthusiastically until I realised that most of my nail polishes have solidified through lack of use.

I then tinted my eyebrows… badly, bit of a Groucho Marx thing going on; followed by 45 minutes of clothes-trying-on. Easter had hit my waistline hard and nothing fit properly: I had   a few minutes of panic as I got stuck in a dress I had no business trying on as the last time I wore it was pre-kids.

I tried control pants but the fat was pushed up over my belly button giving my silhouette a freaky Michelin Man appearance. A further search through my very unsexy knicker drawer turned up a larger pair that reached to under my boobs so I had more material to tuck the extra flab into. I found a dress that fit and went on the hunt for shoes… I don’t wear heels ever as I’m a creature of comfort and I inherited bunions and cankles from my Mam… am I painting a glamorous picture? I thought I could get away with black, slightly wedged runner boots similar to the ones Baby Spice used to wear and I vibered an image to Fiona (she didn’t inherit the bad feet and wears high heels around the house like slippers) who shut down that plan with a NO and some poo emoticons.

My friend Susan was to collect me and said she’d bring a smorgasbord of her most comfortable heels… I wasn’t hopeful so I put on some black flats. I compensated frumpy, fat feelings with an impeccable makeup job… I think I may have mastered the eyeliner flick and with some help from a pencil my eyebrows were on fleek.

I closed the blinds in the boys rooms and I was simultaneously hit with with joy that their rooms looked so neat and sadness not to see their little faces.

I had a great night catching up with old friends (including my old pal vodka) and playing the whose kids are more bratty game with them? (a game I always win). We had a fun discussion about the decline of the flasher and attributed it to webcams... probably preferable to flash from the comfort of your own home and it is quite difficult to find decently priced trench coats these days.

The flipside of my night out were pants that became increasingly more controlling and a borrowed pair of Mary Janes that were slowly but methodically sawing my toes off.

I got home to an empty house and decided to heat up the remaining chinese (I always do this, knowing there will be motillium consequences) and watch some TV at 3am. I thought I would sleep uninterrupted for 12 hours but still woke at 7am… maybe it’s not the kids fault or maybe I’ve been institutionalised.

I picked the kids up that afternoon from my frazzled sister who repeatedly gibbered “how do you do it?” I placated her with a bottle of wine which I may have seen her open with her teeth as she waved goodbye.

I asked the boys on the journey home if they enjoyed having a sleepover together and the 8 year old answered..”NO, Koray farted TWICE!”

From the back of the car Koray (5) shouted indignantly “I ATE A LOT OF CHICKEN!”

While snuggling my little men that night and making up stories involving poo and snots, I revelled in their squeals of laughter. My parental battery had been recharged and I was more than happy to be in bed at 8pm in oversized PJs and comfy knickers.

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About the Author

Mother of 3 young boys, blogging about poo, post-baby vags and other beautiful aspects of parenting and domestic slavery.

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