Saturday night lasted until Sunday morning. You were at a party, best party you go to all year. People you like, much drinking of Christmas spirits, all kinds of food (though in retrospect, you really should have eaten more of it…), and this year – tacky Christmas sweaters.
So when you get home at 4 in the morning, reeling from red wine, wishing you’d thought to eat dinner 10 hours previous, trying to remember who pulled who’s lip piercing out of who’s tacky sweater, and still wearing your own tacky sweater,
the last thing you want to see is the father-in-law who babysat for you, still fully dressed, not having been to bed, telling you that your son has been throwing up the entire evening. Seven times.
And as you close one eye in an attempt to hear him more clearly, it sinks in that you are a terrible, terrible mother. Knowing there is no redemption for you right now, and that the grandfather is clearly capable, more capable than you, you pass out.
And as The Boy’s bout of stomach flu clears up, you start to feel not so shit hot yourself, and you re-evaluate your relationship with your stomach’s contents, analyzing how close you actually are to them, and if you can bear to part with them.
But there is no time for such considerations, as The Girl takes the metaphorical baton from her brother, and commences Linda-Blair-in-Exorcist style purging. Throughout the night. And into the morning.
And when she is done with the virus, bright-eyed and chipper and demanding once more, The Husband takes a crack at it, hosting the virus for a shift.
And then it’s Tuesday, and you’re saying to yourself, “Wait a minute, wasn’t I going to have a proper hangover, here?”
If this hangover is still happening, you’re taking the very long way around.