I woke up this morning certain that I’d been hit in the head last night. With a hammer.
Throbbing.
Painful.
My neck which last night I’d thought had been miraculously cured, can no longer turn. It wasn’t sore cause I was feeling no pain.
I put the pillow over my head and wish that there was some way to take nurofen without leaving the position I was in. Later I’m grateful to that pillow for shielding my husband from the sight that is me today.
Glowing skin from that fab moisturiser I’ve been using all week? Gone.
The mascara I’d so carefully double layered last night is smeared around my eyes.
The bags under my eyes from Elijah’s 2:30am wake up time (he didn’t go back to sleep) last week, had nearly unpacked themselves but now they’ve doubled in size.
My skin is whiter than sheets I’m sleeping on, making the pimples on my face stand out more.
A kebab, chips and some sort of cocktail with marshmallow on top? Seemed like a great combo at the time.
How many bottles of wine?
To fix it all there is really going to have to be a burger in my day today. Definitely buckets of coffee.
Yoga is out the window. My couch will be the only place I stretch on today.
I mean this is all ok. I can handle it. I did the crime I can do the time but….
I’m a MOTHER.
Meaning that when my husband is feeling delicate I close the door to the room, tiptoe out of there and keep the kids away from him. I make him breakfast, put his coffee, water and two nurofen by the bed.
Seeing my behaviour the kids copy, tiptoeing around Daddy whilst he snoozes on the couch for most of the day.
My day goes a little something like this:
Children screaming
Children hungry
“Sssssh let Mummy sleep. JULIAN!!!!! GET YOUR CLOTHES ON FOR FOOTY NOW.”
Oh God, that’s never going to work. Give him his clothes I pray. Give him his clothes Daniel.
Tears. Missing shorts. That’s the wrong top. More tears.
MUMMMY!!!
God my head hurts.
“I’ll take Leo so you will get quiet time honey.”
Meltdowns. Screaming.More tears. I crawled out of bed to the coffee machine and to referee. No one made it to footy.
There was no quiet time for Mummy.
There never is.
So what I think is this:
I need to go back to my sparkly self last night and tell her that all those witty conversations she is going to have?
She won’t remember them.
I might need to tell her to wear a watch because 3am is going to give her less than five hours sleep and that is no fun for anyone.
I definitely need to remind her that anymore than three glasses of wine is going to poison her.
But even though Mummy’s really shouldn’t get hangovers her heart will be full of love for her girlfriends, her legs wobbly from all the high-heeled dancing and her face sore from all the laughing.
And I’ll tell her it’s worth every ounce of pain today.
