First ever whole night away from The Poop.
I didn't know how I was supposed to feel about this. Guilty? Selfish? Sick with worry? Seemingly, Dave felt all these things, while I on the other hand felt none of them. I was perfectly happy with the whole thing. Looking forward to it. Excited about having Dave to myself and relishing the thought of a childless twenty four hours. If anything, a few more days apart from her would have gone down a treat with me. She's cute and that, but I do get sick of her at times. And indeed she must get sick of me. No, wait. I just heard how ridiculously diplomatic that sounds; who could ever get sick of me?
Anyway, safe to say, I wasn't concerned. Not in the slightest. Boo would be fine. We would be fine.
And with her safely stowed at Nan and Grandad's accompanied by more clothes, food and own way than she could get through in a week, off we went to an 'Allo Allo' themed Murder Mystery in Blackpool, organised by Fred the Weatherman. Like you do.
In line with the theme, everyone donned fancy dress. Me and Dave decided to go as the much referred to 'Fallen Madonna With The Big Boobies', with me as the fallen Madonna and him wandering around for the evening wearing a giant pair of handmade norks. I think we're invited because we always bring a touch of class to the evening.
 |
| Me and Dave, or 'Luxembourg' as I like to call us in this picture. |
I'd like to think it happened because I was drunk. I like to think I hadn't seen it coming. Even right now, talking to you, I'd like to pretend it didn't happen. But that's exactly why I ended up here. Burying my head in the sand. Denial. Trying to ignore it is only making it worse.
So here goes.
After one glass of wine:
I was fine. I was myself. I made inappropriate jokes about friends who couldn't hear me, and appropriate jokes about those who could. All was well.
After one glass of wine:
I was fine. I was myself. I made inappropriate jokes about friends who couldn't hear me, and appropriate jokes about those who could. All was well.
After two glasses of wine:
I started to talk louder, began to gesture more broadly and took the solving of an innuendo fuelled murder incredibly seriously. Business as usual.
After three glasses of wine:
I took my shoes off under the table, found the in-your-endo increasingly hilarious and was utterly outraged when our table of four was beaten in the Murder Mystery by a smug six-some. We then retired to the bar where I threw dirty looks at the gaggle of cheating scum and started to get a reputation for being a horrible person. Which can only have been put about by that corrupt table of subhuman filth.
After four glasses of wine:
I sang venomous karaoke at my rapidly dwindling audience, before deciding, upon hearing 'It's Like That', by Run DMC and Jason Nevins, that I could break dance. And that not only could I dance, but that I was hard as nails. While dressed as an 80s Madonna. With fake bandages on my head, no shoes on, and laddered tights. After slipping over on a stick of Blackpool rock (that's not made up by the way - Fred had decorated the tables with them), I came to my senses a bit and shuffled back to my unimpressed homies and visually mortified husband.
Or at least, I thought I'd come to my senses a bit. Because it was then when in happened.
And in my defence, just remember all that had gone on; I was caught off-guard.
As I plonked down at the table, presumably, in an attempt to coax me out of the holy show I was making of myself, my friend Jean asked:
"So how's Betty getting on?"
It's not what you want to hear, but believe me, I want to say it even less.
I stopped. I put down my wine glass. I spun in my chair to face her. I inhaled. Then I began.
I told her how Betty is walking, how she is gorgeous, which way she faces at night, how she has grown, how well she is speaking, what happens at bath time, how funny she is, how well she sleeps, why she doesn't like ham, how much she loves nursery, how much E45 I put on her in a day, at what times she has her dinner, how she loves music, how well she swims, which are her favourite toys...
Then I actually heard myself.
I started to talk louder, began to gesture more broadly and took the solving of an innuendo fuelled murder incredibly seriously. Business as usual.
After three glasses of wine:
I took my shoes off under the table, found the in-your-endo increasingly hilarious and was utterly outraged when our table of four was beaten in the Murder Mystery by a smug six-some. We then retired to the bar where I threw dirty looks at the gaggle of cheating scum and started to get a reputation for being a horrible person. Which can only have been put about by that corrupt table of subhuman filth.
After four glasses of wine:
I sang venomous karaoke at my rapidly dwindling audience, before deciding, upon hearing 'It's Like That', by Run DMC and Jason Nevins, that I could break dance. And that not only could I dance, but that I was hard as nails. While dressed as an 80s Madonna. With fake bandages on my head, no shoes on, and laddered tights. After slipping over on a stick of Blackpool rock (that's not made up by the way - Fred had decorated the tables with them), I came to my senses a bit and shuffled back to my unimpressed homies and visually mortified husband.
Or at least, I thought I'd come to my senses a bit. Because it was then when in happened.
And in my defence, just remember all that had gone on; I was caught off-guard.
As I plonked down at the table, presumably, in an attempt to coax me out of the holy show I was making of myself, my friend Jean asked:
"So how's Betty getting on?"
It's not what you want to hear, but believe me, I want to say it even less.
I stopped. I put down my wine glass. I spun in my chair to face her. I inhaled. Then I began.
I told her how Betty is walking, how she is gorgeous, which way she faces at night, how she has grown, how well she is speaking, what happens at bath time, how funny she is, how well she sleeps, why she doesn't like ham, how much she loves nursery, how much E45 I put on her in a day, at what times she has her dinner, how she loves music, how well she swims, which are her favourite toys...
Then I actually heard myself.
Everything I said screamed only one worryingly undeniable truth.
DOTING MOTHER.
DOTING MOTHER.
I'm sorry. You're disappointed in me, aren't you? I can feel it. Well, if it's any consolation, I'm disappointed in myself. I have actively tried to avoid becoming that woman. That bloody mother that spends parties sapping the joy out of the occasion for everyone by banging on about her kids. And I really, truly, thought I'd evaded becoming the social hand grenade that looms large in my proudly cynical mind. Yet, turns out if you slosh a few glasses of rose down my throat, that's EXACTLY. WHO. I. AM.
Dave shook his head at me, tutted, and gestured towards the door. We skulked off to bed looking like a right pair of boobs. At least Dave could take his off.
The next day we ate breakfast at the earliest sitting in the hope of not bumping into anyone to whom I might have to apologise for my uncharacteristically maternal behaviour. We then jumped in the car to embark upon the silent motorway journey home.
You must understand. I never wanted it to be like this. Though I bet that's what all these loving parents say. But I really didn't choose this to happen to me. The Poop just...breaks you down. She destroys even the most committed resolve - with her smile and her walk and her tiny voice and her giggle and her...oh God. And it's not even the wine talking now.
Right. That's it. I'm going.
No comments:
Post a Comment