Uncouth

As a new parent, I have discovered that there must be a plan B when it comes to getting somewhat shit faced. As one must always choose his battles selectively, the same principal goes for hangovers. Since Hunter is on a better sleep schedule than anyone in the universe, seven to seven, I’m pretty much flushed, if a headache starts to jackhammer my skull open.

That’s exactly what happened this morning after Shane left at eight o’clock to make a ten o’clock tee time. I was left to be responsible for my one year old. I quickly wrapped myself in my green robe bright enough to make a blind man see and made way to the bathroom to wash off my smoky raccoon eyes. To make it to the bathroom, with my super mother senses I had to covertly make it pass Hunter’s crib. With the rattle and shake in my brain, I walked a tight rope. As soon as I was in crib's sight, I heard him fiddling with his toys. Ugh, operation covert is a flop. I accept the fact that I'm screwed.

Luckily, Hunter is self-entertained. It must be either a first child thing, a boy thing, or in the genes (most likely the Cadelinia side), because he is by the very definition "low maintenance." I pluck him from the crib and place him in his play room the size of my tidal headache. He immediately finds his Tonka which means that I'm safe for the next thirty minutes. The couch, my ever saving grace --next to a nice long shower, but that was not going to happen. The couch, on the other hand, would be the magical arms that would cradle me back to life. Sure enough a couple doses of Food Network, Tyler's Ultimate and Oliver's Twist to be exact, with my subconscious fading in and out of reality, and I was on my way to salvation. A cup of french press would make my situation fashionably correct, but that too wasn't going to happen.

It was time to roll. I peeled myself from the couch and dragged my head hard into mommy gear. It was mind over matter. I quickly fed the little squirt some yogurt, meanwhile questioning my audacity to indulge in the antics of alcohol the night before. Through it all, I smiled and played the jester to my son as I shoveled organic apple yogurt his way. Although I suffered severely from the last shot of patron that did me in last night, the laughter of my son made up for my mistake. Thanks to a nifty thing called a schedule, he was ready for his morning nap. I filled a 10 ounce bottle of milk, dropped him in the crib, and turned the mild tunes of beethoven a few gentle decibels. Viola. My dreams were a mere second away from my head hitting the pillow. I gently wrapped myself in a chocolate chenile cocoon and had a moment of reflection, "Like a rat to a piece of poisong, I would gladly do it all again."

This is Shellie practicing the kung fu of hangover back to you Bob at the Studio.