If it continues this way, I’ll soon be publishing my blog from prison, provided they let you do things like that here. Do they let you do things like that here?
Muppet’s got to take allergy medication to help control his flea-induced itchiness. It “may cause drowsiness” in the same way that NyQuil might make you feel a bit sleepy. But my son, always a fighter, refuses to give in to the fact that his body is drugged and cannot go on. No, he’s his mama’s boy. And what does she do when she’s on heavy medication?
Why, get drunk of course! At least I used to before the risk of permanently damaging these little people who have come to live in my personal space became something that worried me and niggled at my nerves 39 hours a day.
I had to go upstairs to get Tiggerette. She’d already slept close to two hours past meal time and I figured letting her scream, something I’d grown quite used to from the first months of her life but have since not had to endure so often thankgodpraisethelordhallelujah, seemed somehow cruel. The Monkey v 1.0 was calmly terrorizing the couch, sedately watching les Barbapapa (merci Aunt Vi). All seemed right in the world.
I went up the stairs, grabbed the hungry, wet, stinky girl, and came down the stairs. That’s all. Her arrow had moved into the red ‘feed me NOW bitch’ area so lingering was not an option.
Monkey 1, during this time, jumped up off the futon, ran into the kitchen, grabbed a chair, pulled it across the room, climbed up on it, stood on the plastic cabinet that holds our knives and food storage containers and reached around to the back of the dryer. There he found a teeny tiny bottle of Lingon Berry spirits—you know those little airplane bottles, like that but only more decorative (and Vi, you should know exactly the one I’m talking about as we had it out when you were here I think) with a gray moose head because I bought it at IKEA!!! and those people know entirely too much about marketing to people like me.
By the time Tiggerette and I made it to the kitchen, some two minutes later, the bottle was empty. And Monkey 1 had really sweet smelling breath.
Oh thanks, son. I need this today.
So I called the masculine version of their parental units (because he’s never around for the fun shit like this, whether by design or good luck I don’t know—all I know is he misses all the fun). And He. Laughed. At. Me.
The bottle was honestly half empty already, and given the big wet spot The Boy had on his Elmo sweatshirt (thanks Aunt Anne and Uncle Bill) half of what was left didn’t make it down. Still, he ended up with about half a shot of 60-proof spirits.
Marc’s family grows grapes and makes champagne (although technically we aren’t yet allowed to call it that, but hey, a spade is a spade, right?) so the bubbly stuff is always a part of any celebration in the family. And it’s shared, with everyone at the table, young and old. Muppet, much like his mother (because his father touches nothing stronger than cidre, but I’ll rant about why the man is not French another day), likes the bubbles and I have more than once had to pry my glass from his fingers. He then gets accused of being “joyeux” or very happy, at Christmas dinner. This was my SIL’s polite way of saying “your kid is drunk”, though drunk might have been an overstatement. Tipsy, definitely.
Yesterday he went beyond tipsy. The kid could not walk straight. He could no longer talk. And everything, especially his sister, made him crack up. And yes, I refused to call the poison control people because I cannot face life without him, and given his history of OD-ing on his sister’s vitamin drops and his excessive use of my birth control pills, I’m sure if I called to inquire about rehab they’d come with the nice white jacket and take me to a padded room.
I need a vacation, but not that kind.