My own childhood booze consumption pics all involve drinking direct from the bottle.
Just to clarify.
I am utterly exhausted.
It has been one helluva weekend.
I feel like such a hard partying rock star.
Only I'm not.
In this scenario, I am merely the stage parent.
The Billy Ray Cyrus to The Feral Threesome's collective Miley.
The Dina Lohan to The Feral Threesome's Lindsay.
The Kris Jenner to The Feral Threesome's Kardashian Kollection of Kash earning Kids.
Clinging on to the facade of having a social life on account of my packed weekend of partying....
Only it wasn't my weekend of partying at all.
It was The Feral Threesome's weekend of partying.
I was merely an observer. A plus one. A chauffeur. A Social Co-ordinator, at a stretch.
My children have a more active social life than I do.
Which I could come to terms with, were they teenagers or 20-something's who party hard until the wee hours of the morning.
But we're talking about 4 year old twins and a 7 year old.
I am envious.
I am disgusted (in the state of my own social calendar).
I am embarassed (a little bit by their dance moves, but mostly by my non-existent social presence).
Most of all, I am utterly exhausted.
By pass the parcel and lolly bags and the joyous but
sound barrier ear drum shattering screams of delight from groups of sugared up, partying kids.
Go hard or go home.
It has a totally new meaning now that I'm a mother.
In my hey day it meant leave work at one of WA's weekend newspapers at 5pm on a Friday and commence partying immediately. Go until 6am Saturday when the last clubs closed, and head straight back to work for my 7am start each Saturday. Finish work Saturday afternoon and head home for a quick couple of hours rest before doing it all again.
Go hard or go home.
Now it's heading home after the ear drum bashing, hiding the lolly bags so that I can covertly steal the best lollies before gradually handing the rest out to the kids over the course of a week in order to reduce the sugar rush to a bare minimum.
And then brewing a nice hot cup of soothing tea.
And changing into something with an elastic waistband that matches my slippers.
At this rate I should just check into the nearest nursing home now. At age 34.
As long as it has a no partying, no noise policy in effect from 5pm. Lest my near comatose lifestyle be disturbed.