PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT # 633: HANGOVERS WITH CHILDREN ARE MUCH, MUCH WORSE.
Almost everyone has an initial run in with over-imbibing. We call it a “hangover” because it can end with your face hanging over the toilet. Pre-kids, I had a few hangovers, sure. They usually involved liquor from Mexico or Russia, or in one case, Everclear, which I think is a gasoline byproduct. The worst hangovers were passed in front of the TV, with some chips and Gatorade; the phone unplugged. I didn’t want to discuss how I just treated my body with anyone, much less admit that it was three in the afternoon and I’d only now just succeeded in being upright.
Hangovers with kids? It’s a whole new thing, a sequel. The Hangover, Part 2.
New Years is a perfect time to create a hangover, if you want one. If you find yourself at a party and people are handing you fizzy drinks, you can just say, “Sure! Thanks!” and then “Um, sure, thank you!” and then “Sure I will!” and then “SUuuurEEE!!” and on and on until you are telling complete strangers intimate details about your life that they really don’t want to know. Your filter will go right out the window. You and everyone else have a great time meeting people, forgetting their names, forgetting that forty minutes earlier you were talking to them about the exact same thing, etc. You have a few chips and sausage rolls, thinking this might hinder the absorption of the many fizzy drinks (it won’t). At some point, you remember, oh shit, I have children; I better relieve the babysitter, or alternately, I better pretend to be sober as I walk them home in the dark…
You arrive home and try not to speak to the sitter, so she doesn’t notice that your eyes are crossed. Finally, the bed finds you and welcomes you to its’ warm, blanket-filled bosom, and if you are lucky, you remember to remove some of your clothing and/or brush your teeth. If you’re lucky.
I awoke on New Year’s day to my husband, moaning.
“We need to get rid of the children….” He said, as they ran down the hallway, “We need….for them…to go away…….” He whispered, barely audible. I told him it wasn’t possible, that we had created them and now we had to deal, and anyone we knew that we could have pawned them off on would be suffering today as well. Also I was raised Catholic so I figure I probably should suffer for having that much fun. (These things stay with you, even after lots of therapy). We launch into our usual discussion, I’ll give you twenty dollars if you make the coffee, no, I’ll do all the dishes for a week if you make it, which is all rhetorical because no one ever gets paid or actually lives up to the bargain. He finally caves, seeing the pleading look on my face, and I hear him tell the kids “DO NOT wake Mommy up. Let her sleep…” And I smile as I drift off back into a dream. I love this man.
Five minutes later I awake to my daughter, staring at me from approximately three inches away. She laughs as I open my eyes and commands “wake up now!” I notice that I am actually facing the wrong way on the bed, with my head almost off the end, covered in every blanket possible, like a giant nest. I tell her that I have transformed into a giant snail, and if she is very quiet she can come inside my shell. She climbs in and then the boy crams in too. We decide that this is a spiders’ web and I have caught them both for dinner; I squeeze them into a sweaty embrace. They want me to get up. I am desperate not to. I think of more games we can play that involve me not moving from the pile. We decide we are a layered sandwich, a pickle, cheese, hot pepper sandwich (Don’t ask me). Then it degrades into what gross thing we now are, and eventually I kick them out. This turns out to be the best part of the day. The rest of the hangover involves me staring at the wall, taking a shower and staring at the wall, opening the fridge and staring at it and trying to remember how to make anything for people to eat. I opt for wontons in the freezer and make soup. It tastes delicious except for the two that look kind of pink; I think, hmm, did I cook that for long enough? I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. I eat them anyway. The day continues and I take them to the park, letting them run free while I stare at the trees. I see a man doing the same thing and absent-mindedly picking at his face as his children run amok. This could have been worse. I did fail to mention the splitting headache, the all-over body ache, the stench of booze even after a shower…but these are a given, surely. My husband and I tag team it through the day, finding as many ways as possible to lie still on the floor, begging “quieter, please…” and then it’s over. Almost. Everyone is in bed when I feel the nagging tug inside my gut. “Guess what? “ it says. “You have two minutes before spewing. Two minutes to final countdown, less than two minutes now…” I tell my husband I am off to the basement; something is terribly wrong with me. I make it with mere seconds to spare as the undercooked wontons leave my body at high velocity and speed, taking with them a few chips, a Powerade, and various other salty foods.
“Oh God, “ I moan, calling on he-who-is-often-named.
I don’t ask God for anything, I just think this is what I should say, as one does when they are in trouble. But I am lucky. The torrent is fast and merciful and I end it by cleaning the toilet, which I needed to do anyway, and wish I had done earlier. I crawl into the downstairs un-made guest bed, piling on blankets until I fall asleep. The Hangover is officially over. The sequel is never as good as the first run, it’s often much, much worse.