Well I remember those Halcyon days. You could go out, get rat-bottomed, and spend the next day hiding under the covers with only occasional forays into the wilderness for tea and marmite toast. You could flop on the sofa and remain there, and if you were lucky your weak bleats for nurofen might be answered by a missile of said magic pills from a passing housemate.
Now though. Oh dear god. Firstly, it’s the morning cry of “Maaaammyyyy!” “MAAAAAMMMMYYYYY” which drags you from your sick bed. You will probably be greeted with the words “Urgh Mummy why have you got fart breath?”
If you are really lucky, there might be a nappy situation waiting for you. Good luck keeping the acid remains of that “oh go on then, just one (four) more” drink down when presented with poo in your child’s hair.
Then it’s downstairs for endless games of snakes and fecking ladders, which you have to deliberately lose to avoid head-splitting wails of indignation from your uber competitive child. Your cries of pain will go unanswered by him indoors, who instead seems to think telling you that it’s entirely your own fault is somehow a sufficient replacement for tea and sympathy and drugs.
There is no lolling to be had, and pleading with your child to have a movie and a snuggle will not work. And why? Because they know when you are hungover. It’s some sort of child 6th sense. They save their most demonic behaviour especially for that ONE time you forgot yourself and accidentally drank 17 kopperburgs*
So it would seem that drinking is to be a thing of that past. It’s just not worth the additional pain and suffering. I’ve gotten really good at not getting to hangover point, but sometimes I slip up and then it’s WELCOME TO HELL. *cries*
*disclaimer. I have never accidentally drunk 17 kopperburgs. Not 17 anyway.