BY: MEG BROADBENT

When my little guy was a few months old, I decided it was high time for a night out. I was on house arrest for almost 8 weeks after he was born, and I was getting restless. I wanted to dance. To Beyonce. On a table. I summoned a few of my girlfriends and we set a date.

The night in question got off to a rocky start when I tried to find something to wear. Getting dressed to go out used to be easy, in that I used to have a body that fit into things. Post baby, however, was a different story: none of my shirts fit over my enormous milk jugs, the thing that used to be my waist is now a loose skin sack full of jello and despair, and the only jeans that fit me are sweatpants.

After trying on everything in my closet while whimpering, I finally settled on stretchy black leather leggings and a long black t-shirt. Yes, the t-shirt was baggy, but it had shoulder cut-outs. Flaunt what you still got, right?

The rest of the night went like so:

8:30 pm: Glass of wine at home to celebrate the fitting of my body into something other than pajamas. Go me!

9:00 pm: Breastfeed the shit out of baby so that I can be away from him for as long as possible.

9:25 pm: Baby pukes all over the only shirt that still fits me.

9:30 pm: Chug two campari sodas while frantically doing my makeup with one hand and holding baby in the other.

9:45 pm: Find another black t-shirt. It may or may not be my husband’s. I may or may not care.

10:05 pm: Wonder how I’m already so tipsy. Remember that I haven’t had more than two drinks in a night since before I got pregnant.

10:10 pm: Start dancing to The Weeknd in my living room. Husband reminds me to leave the house.

10:15 pm: Attempt to put heels on. Discover that newly acquired cankles cannot be contained by Alexander Wang’s skinny straps. Also, I forget how to walk.

[Charles Jourdan Spring 1979 Ad Campaign by Guy Bourdin]

10:30 pm: En route to a bar on Dundas with three of my best girlfriends. I am alive with pleasure and freedom! I am out of the house without my baby! I am buzzed! My hair smells good! Nothing can stop me!

10:31 pm: I laugh at something one of my friends says and to my shock and horror, pee a little bit in my underwear. A chilling vision of things to come.

10:40 pm: Tequila shot at the bar.

10:45 pm: Sneeze, immediately pee myself for the second time. Ask my friend who also has a newborn why this is happening to me. She explains that alcohol aggravates even the mildest case of incontinence caused by a weak pelvic floor, which in turn is caused by pushing an entire football-sized human out of your vagina. WHY GOD NO.

11:00 pm: Silent tears as I run downstairs to the washroom to investigate. Underwear ruined. No back up pair. Only solution is to take them off. Never not wearing a diaper in public again.

11:15 pm: Decide that the only way to pretend I’m not soaking wet from the waist down is to keep drinking. Buy a bottle of Proseco. Hear tiny voice inside my head say “this should end well.”

11:30 pm: Boobs are rock hard and bigger than my head. I poke gently at one of them and my bra fills with milk. Why happening.

11:45 pm: While walking to our second and final destination, a club on Queen West, I blow my nose and piss myself for the third time. Remember that I’m not wearing underwear. Discover that leather leggings + pee = hot rubber pants of shame.

12:00 am: Waiting in line. Begin to wonder if everyone can tell that I smell like urine and failure. Panic sets in.

12:15 am: Still not inside. I feel like there are giant fluorescent arrows pointing at my head that say “OLD” and “MOM.”

12:20 am: So hot. I am on fire. My whole body is burning.

12:25 am: My engorged breasts make me look like a blow-up sex doll. Never should have left the house. Zip up coat, ready to throw in the towel and go home.

12:30 am: In defiance of God and nature, we somehow get in. Probably thanks to my blow-up sex doll boobs. Shot of Jameson to celebrate.

1:00 am – 2:00 am: A blur of dancing and “flirting,” aka yelling at strangers “I JUST HAD A BABY AND NOW I’M HERE!” For some reason do not receive multiple high fives in response.

2:00 am: Corner a group of 20-something women and tell them never to have children.

2:05 am: Force the bartender to look at pictures of my baby on my iPhone. “I MADE THIS MOTHERFUCKER WITH MY BODY!”

2:10 am: While aggressively dancing to “work,” fall over onto a couch. Someone asks if I’m ok and I yell “IT’S MOM’S NIGHT OUTTTT!!!” Again, less high fives than expected.

2:30 am: Lights come on. My first thought is that there’s a fire drill happening. I warn the DJ. He tells me to go home.

2:45 am: Start walking home. Text literally everyone in my phone on the way.

3:00 am: Home. Discover that soaking wet leather leggings are impossible to remove. Manage to get them down to my knees and give up. Waddle to the kitchen like a sad penguin.

3:30 am: Have been eating everything I can find in the house for the past 30 minutes with my eyes closed. Spill water everywhere on the slow journey from the kitchen to my bedroom.

3:35 am: Turn lights on in bedroom where husband and baby are soundly asleep together. Start taking pictures of them on my iPhone while loudly yelling how much I love them.

6:00 am: Wake up in a cold sweat. Head throbbing. Heart racing. My mouth tastes like a funeral. Realize I am hungover for the first time in 18 months.

Still got it.

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