It is 9 p.m. on a Saturday night. And not just any Saturday night: It is the Saturday night before St. Patrick's Day. So what am I doing to celebrate?
I am sitting in my basement, alone, listening to the ocean waves from Graham's nursery on the baby monitor, watching Hart of Dixie on Netflix and I just finished a glass of milk and some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
It seems the days of green beer might be a thing of the past for me. I did contemplate putting green food coloring in my glass of milk, though, but decided it would be too much work.
If you would have told me a year ago that this is what the future had in store for me on St. Patrick's Day, there is no way I would have believed you. Two years ago on St. Patrick's Day, I was sick and had to work and yet I still went out after work. Last year I was pregnant but still partook in the festivities (minus the beer, of course). Let's face it: I love a good party and any excuse to dress up and have fun.
But do not mistake this as a cry for pity. Far from it. There is no way that I have ever had a St. Patrick's Day in which I was happier than I am right now. I got to spend the day with my husband and our son (taking him swimming for the first time). And with the precious few hours I get with him during the week, I like to spend as much time with Graham on the weekends that I can.
No green beer and no St. Patrick's Day parade could ever make me feel as fulfilled and happy as spending my days with my sweet little man (and my big man, too).
Besides, if I were to partake in Cleveland's St. Patrick's Day festivities, I can assure you the outcome would not be pretty. It seems as though it might not be just green beer that is a thing of the past for me but rather alcohol in general.
I'm quite embarrassed to share this story, but since the basis of my blog has always been and probably always will be centered around making fun of myself, why should I stop now?
The story is about me drinking too much. I know what you're thinking - this is not something new and different. And you're right. Just another tale of Emily drinking more than she can handle and then getting sick and hungover.
So what makes this different than any of the other countless times this has happened to me in my life? Several factors. One difference, and something that makes this particular story much more embarrassing than it would have been a year ago: I am now a mom. I am responsible for taking care of another human being. A child's well being depends on me and yet, I am still behaving like a child myself.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not naive enough to believe that the act of giving birth alone magically turns women into responsible human beings and good mothers. All you have to do is watch the news to know that is not the case.
But I do think if there was a certain moment in your life when you should probably grow up and stop drinking like you're still in college, it would be when you become a parent (or perhaps when you graduate from college).
In my defense, though, it is not as if I ever think to myself before going out, "I'm going to get so drunk tonight." I never actually intend to get drunk. I always just intend to have a good time. And while I do not need alcohol to accomplish this goal, I happen to enjoy the way it tastes (going down, anyway. I actually despise the way it tastes when it's coming back up).
So all too often, I get caught up on the moment, the party, the evening, whatever it may be, and I do not stop drinking when I should. And I always pay for it the next day. But in the past, I've always been able to lay around on the couch the next day and "sleep it off" if you will.
Well let's just say, there are no "off days" when you become a parent. There isn't time to "sleep it off" which makes mom hangovers the absolute worst kind of hangover.
I have had two "mom hangovers" sine Graham was born which have taken place the only two times I have drank since he was born. Each of these instances have been brutal reminders that I am not 21 anymore and that I have become a serious lightweight since being pregnant and having a baby.
Seriously. It's quite unfair what happens to women. You go an entire year without drinking, watching your favorite seasonal beers come and go and desperately waiting for the moment when you can enjoy a drink or two (or three, four or five). Your mind seems to forget about the fact that you haven't drank in an entire year but your body does not. I assure you, your body does not.
The first incident was on Christmas night. I had a few glasses of wine and a mixed concoction that my step-mom made for me. I know it was some sort of pear drink and I know that she has a tendency to make them strong.
The night ended with me sitting on a saddle in their house, sending Pat a text message telling him that I was in the bathroom about to get sick but was written in cryptic code and made no sense and then crawling to bed. I am not sure how many times in my life I will continue making the mistake of getting drunk in front of my drug and alcohol counselor father, but apparently I haven't learned my lesson yet.
Needless to say, the next day was very rough.
The second incident was more recent and perhaps more severe. Pat and I decided to go on our first official date since Graham was born and celebrate Valentine's Day. So my SIL came over to watch Graham for us while we went out.
We started the evening by filing our taxes (we are very romantic these days). We then headed downtown for a nice dinner and an evening at the casino. In six hours, I had about four or four and a half drinks. More than I needed for sure, but nothing too crazy.
I fell asleep (or passed out) in the car on the way home and by the time we were in our driveway, I was throwing up in a pile of snow (completely wasting all of my delicious and expensive meal). Pat had to get our snow shovel to bury my puke. Classy.
The fun doesn't stop there. It took Grady about five seconds upon being let outside to find the puke pile. The next morning, all I could think about was how miserable I felt while all Grady could think about was the buried treasure in our yard. It was Filet Mignon, after all. A huge step up from his usual diet of bibs and burp cloths.
Every time we let him outside, he went straight to the pile and kept eating it and all of the snow around it. I was having a hard time stomaching it, literally. I already felt super nauseous and now I had to watch my dog eat my puke.
Pat headed to the grocery store while I stayed home and tended to my upset stomach, my pounding head, and, of course, our son. My hands were pretty full and the last thing I needed was to keep letting Grady in and out of the house and then having to wipe all the snow off of his paws before letting him back in. So I started ignoring his pleads and whines.
Grady was following me everywhere I went, whining at me to let him out. But I wasn't going to let him fool me. I knew he just wanted to eat more snow puke. When he went to the back door and peed, however, I realized too late that he did, in fact, really need to go outside. The entire time he had been following me around, he was peeing.
Turns out, when your dog spends an entire day eating snow, he will also spend the entire day peeing. So the rest of the afternoon I was on my hands and knees, with an upset stomach and a pounding head, cleaning up the maze of pee that was all over our house.
After feeling completely sick and miserable on top of feeling regret that I was wasting time I could have been spending with my son, I decided once and for all that alcohol is not my friend. From now on, I'm setting a two drink limit for myself.
Anyone want to take wagers on how long it takes before I am "re-learning" this lesson about my lack of tolerance for alcohol? Summer Shandy should be hitting the stores any time now...
I am sitting in my basement, alone, listening to the ocean waves from Graham's nursery on the baby monitor, watching Hart of Dixie on Netflix and I just finished a glass of milk and some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
It seems the days of green beer might be a thing of the past for me. I did contemplate putting green food coloring in my glass of milk, though, but decided it would be too much work.
If you would have told me a year ago that this is what the future had in store for me on St. Patrick's Day, there is no way I would have believed you. Two years ago on St. Patrick's Day, I was sick and had to work and yet I still went out after work. Last year I was pregnant but still partook in the festivities (minus the beer, of course). Let's face it: I love a good party and any excuse to dress up and have fun.
But do not mistake this as a cry for pity. Far from it. There is no way that I have ever had a St. Patrick's Day in which I was happier than I am right now. I got to spend the day with my husband and our son (taking him swimming for the first time). And with the precious few hours I get with him during the week, I like to spend as much time with Graham on the weekends that I can.
No green beer and no St. Patrick's Day parade could ever make me feel as fulfilled and happy as spending my days with my sweet little man (and my big man, too).
Besides, if I were to partake in Cleveland's St. Patrick's Day festivities, I can assure you the outcome would not be pretty. It seems as though it might not be just green beer that is a thing of the past for me but rather alcohol in general.
I'm quite embarrassed to share this story, but since the basis of my blog has always been and probably always will be centered around making fun of myself, why should I stop now?
The story is about me drinking too much. I know what you're thinking - this is not something new and different. And you're right. Just another tale of Emily drinking more than she can handle and then getting sick and hungover.
So what makes this different than any of the other countless times this has happened to me in my life? Several factors. One difference, and something that makes this particular story much more embarrassing than it would have been a year ago: I am now a mom. I am responsible for taking care of another human being. A child's well being depends on me and yet, I am still behaving like a child myself.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not naive enough to believe that the act of giving birth alone magically turns women into responsible human beings and good mothers. All you have to do is watch the news to know that is not the case.
But I do think if there was a certain moment in your life when you should probably grow up and stop drinking like you're still in college, it would be when you become a parent (or perhaps when you graduate from college).
In my defense, though, it is not as if I ever think to myself before going out, "I'm going to get so drunk tonight." I never actually intend to get drunk. I always just intend to have a good time. And while I do not need alcohol to accomplish this goal, I happen to enjoy the way it tastes (going down, anyway. I actually despise the way it tastes when it's coming back up).
So all too often, I get caught up on the moment, the party, the evening, whatever it may be, and I do not stop drinking when I should. And I always pay for it the next day. But in the past, I've always been able to lay around on the couch the next day and "sleep it off" if you will.
Well let's just say, there are no "off days" when you become a parent. There isn't time to "sleep it off" which makes mom hangovers the absolute worst kind of hangover.
I have had two "mom hangovers" sine Graham was born which have taken place the only two times I have drank since he was born. Each of these instances have been brutal reminders that I am not 21 anymore and that I have become a serious lightweight since being pregnant and having a baby.
Seriously. It's quite unfair what happens to women. You go an entire year without drinking, watching your favorite seasonal beers come and go and desperately waiting for the moment when you can enjoy a drink or two (or three, four or five). Your mind seems to forget about the fact that you haven't drank in an entire year but your body does not. I assure you, your body does not.
The first incident was on Christmas night. I had a few glasses of wine and a mixed concoction that my step-mom made for me. I know it was some sort of pear drink and I know that she has a tendency to make them strong.
The night ended with me sitting on a saddle in their house, sending Pat a text message telling him that I was in the bathroom about to get sick but was written in cryptic code and made no sense and then crawling to bed. I am not sure how many times in my life I will continue making the mistake of getting drunk in front of my drug and alcohol counselor father, but apparently I haven't learned my lesson yet.
Needless to say, the next day was very rough.
The second incident was more recent and perhaps more severe. Pat and I decided to go on our first official date since Graham was born and celebrate Valentine's Day. So my SIL came over to watch Graham for us while we went out.
We started the evening by filing our taxes (we are very romantic these days). We then headed downtown for a nice dinner and an evening at the casino. In six hours, I had about four or four and a half drinks. More than I needed for sure, but nothing too crazy.
I fell asleep (or passed out) in the car on the way home and by the time we were in our driveway, I was throwing up in a pile of snow (completely wasting all of my delicious and expensive meal). Pat had to get our snow shovel to bury my puke. Classy.
The fun doesn't stop there. It took Grady about five seconds upon being let outside to find the puke pile. The next morning, all I could think about was how miserable I felt while all Grady could think about was the buried treasure in our yard. It was Filet Mignon, after all. A huge step up from his usual diet of bibs and burp cloths.
Every time we let him outside, he went straight to the pile and kept eating it and all of the snow around it. I was having a hard time stomaching it, literally. I already felt super nauseous and now I had to watch my dog eat my puke.
Pat headed to the grocery store while I stayed home and tended to my upset stomach, my pounding head, and, of course, our son. My hands were pretty full and the last thing I needed was to keep letting Grady in and out of the house and then having to wipe all the snow off of his paws before letting him back in. So I started ignoring his pleads and whines.
Grady was following me everywhere I went, whining at me to let him out. But I wasn't going to let him fool me. I knew he just wanted to eat more snow puke. When he went to the back door and peed, however, I realized too late that he did, in fact, really need to go outside. The entire time he had been following me around, he was peeing.
Turns out, when your dog spends an entire day eating snow, he will also spend the entire day peeing. So the rest of the afternoon I was on my hands and knees, with an upset stomach and a pounding head, cleaning up the maze of pee that was all over our house.
After feeling completely sick and miserable on top of feeling regret that I was wasting time I could have been spending with my son, I decided once and for all that alcohol is not my friend. From now on, I'm setting a two drink limit for myself.
Anyone want to take wagers on how long it takes before I am "re-learning" this lesson about my lack of tolerance for alcohol? Summer Shandy should be hitting the stores any time now...
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