Did you ever smoke weed in your twenties and say to your friends, “We should totally tape this. We are coming up with some awe inspiring shit right now”?
Mom drunk is similar. You have drinks with another woman and you become inspired to be the best you possible. Confession, I’m drunk right now. This essay is an experiment.
- Can I do this?
- Is it okay?
- Will it be readable?
- Grammar? Spelling? Coherency?
Before you start googling the number for Child Services, I should give you some context: It’s a Friday night and I (sober) watched a baby all day long. I planned this Lady’s Night Out two weeks ago and ensured my husband was down for childcare. I left him with a Dr Oetker Pizza (mushroom is the best flavour) and some Startrek and crawled out of my tights and into some actual jeans. I cabbed to meet a friend and gradually succumbed to the seduction of Dionysus (Wikipedia- God of Wine).
Something happens when you abandon your obligations and trade them for female connections. Empowerment, catharsis, vibrant life refueling. Mix that with 3 glasses of the house red and you have yourself a rejuvenating recipe for female enablement. Discussions of grandeur, gushing over grievances, camaraderie over vulnerabilities; each topic ending in a congratulatory “Yes! Me Too” cheers.
I’m not suggesting to all moms to go out and get drunk; however, I must admit the temporary loss of inhibitions followed by the connection of similar woes is so so so fucking therapeutic.
Weed, cigarettes, wine, pizza (Dr Oetker Mushroom. I kid you not); whatever your poison, go out and get some of that sweet sweet lady action because your soul will thank you. Indulge, laugh, cry, grimace, gasp – do it all with some of that sweet, beautiful nectar of progesterone because you will feel like the strongest fucking human being; even if it only lasts until you make it into the backseat of a cab that is blasting old Shania Twain (which is seriously a buzz killer – like, why?).
When you get home you will simply tell your husband “we had fun” – you will not tell him that you bragged about that Russian Soccer player you fucked before you met him, or that you finally got a second opinion on the postnatal butt acne you have developed – you can smile internally knowing that the vault was opened momentarily, and those skeletons were allowed to dance on a bar table next to a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon (why can I spell that right now?).
And what about baby? Oh sweet beautiful baby. I love him more sometimes when I leave him. I get home, he’s asleep and safe, dreaming of pureed mangoes and I wobble in to watch him on the monitor as I chug a pint of tap water. Tomorrow I will groan when he wakes at 6 a.m. to start the day but right now it’s so tempting to go up and cuddle him and watch him sleep. I won’t. But the desire to ooze my love onto those chubby cheeks is real and refreshing.
Female connectivity, the airing of injustices, the reminder of motherly love; it’s all a lovely reward for a brief release of responsibility.
Also, do Gatorade.
Erica Moore is an Interior Designer with a degree in Fine Arts and Literature. She is a wife, and mother to two dogs and one baby. She is also a very hilarious human being.
Check out her blog and keep up with her on Instagram.
Featured Image Grace Jones at Studio 54