Sipping My Way to Sanity

Cheers to all you mamas out there who just might be, “Sipping Your Way to Sanity.” Here’s to those who’ve had a killer day at work and came back to a tantrum. To those who’ve tried to leave their house an hour earlier but were busy wrangling the herd. To those who have wanted to basically stick their fingers in their ears, scream “LALALALALAAAAA” and pretend, for a mere moment in time, a blip in reality, that they never had children. This post, my fellow mamas, is for you…

Sipping My Way to Sanity

THERE IS LITTLE MEDINCINE that cures the insane to sane, the child shrieking shouts to child chill-outs, the husband headaches to husband halos.  Little in the way of help for such abhorrent ailments.  You can’t yell, can’t pray, can’t plead your way to the sanity Gods and Goddesses. When nothing else seems to work, and you feel defeated yet again, this simple solution might find you well: I’ve come to realize that you can most certainly, and should surely, start sipping your way to sanity.  This is a skill in which I’ve become quite adept. 

Sip, slurp, “Sure!”

Sip, slurp, “What?! No problem!”

Sip, slurp, “Spilt milk? Who cares!”

If I had a prescription pad it would read:

“One glass of wine per hour.  Not to exceed one bottle per day.”

And, that would be my doctor’s handwriting.  Barely legible, but kinda cute. (Side note: WordPress won’t allow me to keep my original and adorable font).  An unnecessary point that I thought I’d share.  

The problem with this is that we shouldn’t be drinking a bottle of wine per day.  I wish that were an acceptable thing to do and that I wouldn’t be a shit teacher, colleague, and mom if I opted to imbibe daily in such a fashion.  In fact, I wish that style was in fashion!  I’d rock the shit out of it!  Quick!  Someone get Gucci into the wine making industry! I think this would make the winos of the world look more acceptable.  Though, I think my face would get fat, my liver further damaged (four years of college plus about ten more because my mind never left that ‘university of booze’), and I’d most likely stop going to the gym (God bless Zumba classes and treadmills with TVs), and in turn gain an additional thigh, which Lord knows I most certainly can’t afford to gain.  I sometimes pretend there is a parallel universe where all of the “no, you shouldn’t-s” are “yes, you should-s” and vice versa.  Yes, I could see myself in a perfectly pretty place like that. 

I had a crazy day at work last week.  My students were fucking mental, and getting ready for multiple concerts makes my anxiety soar through the roof.  You’d never know it by looking at me but I truly detest the weeks leading up to performances.  The day itself?  Totally cool as shit.  Ugh.  I came home and G-man was sick and in quite a mood, it was raining hard, again (note-to-self, this is what makes Oregon so beautiful so I should forgive Mother Nature…again), and I totally forgot to go to the store for food.  What’s worse?  I.  Was out.  Of wine!  How could I have let this happen?! Someone upstairs must hate me today (rule of thumb for mothers: place blame elsewhere…always).  So, instead of going to get food, I plopped my kiddo in the stroller, walked with the speed of light to the wine store next door (yes, next door- a blessing or curse in disguise… you decide) and voila!  Bought myself a sultry and too expensive beautiful bottle of Pinot Noir.  Oh, yes, I did.  “Food?  Pshhh… I’ll throw some things in a pan!” “Crying baby? Double ppshh!  I’ll turn on the tube while I throw things in a pan.’ “Students and looming dark concert cloud following my sanity to hell?  Triple pshhh!  I’ll drink that shit away!”  I confess, those are the days where I very well might have the entire bottle of wine.  Plus, that shit spoils if you leave it overnight, right? (wink)

In reality, at the end of the day, all is forgiven.  When my little man tells me, “Mommy, Ms. J (his nanny) doesn’t have eyeballs,” or “When I get older I’ll have a vagina then, okay?” or “Mommy, you need lemon for the hummus.  You don’t know?”  After he had gotten me all of the hummus ingredients without me reminding him, and I had actually forgotten the lemon.  What a precious piece of pie.  He’s my main squeeze, and it is he who is truly my best medicine.