It has to happen sooner or later.

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Pic: Those are just cordial, right? I have to wake up in the morning, you know.

Last week I went out for dinner with The Girls. It was a nice, casual mid week meal, with lots of chatterboxes sitting all around the one table at a local fish and chips joint. Of course we’d rearranged the long tables so we could all see each other and therefore maximise the amount of different conversations we could participate in all at the one time (there are a healthy number of us). The guys just wouldn’t understand haha.

I was in such a good mood and the baby was at home sleeping, with my husband on duty that I did something wild and crazy. I went to the pub (where I ordered a non alcoholic drink) and stayed there for a WHOLE 45 minutes extra (after clearing it with my husband because I wanted to be considerate).

I know. I’m out of control. Next step? Rehab. Clearly.

Oh and sadly, just that little jaunt had me feeling tired all the next morning. I have shamed myself. It’s all over.

You know what, though? I was actually happy with that! I had a fantastic time, I had a short but much needed break from looking after the Little Mister (coming off the back of two weeks of him not being so well) and it was fun seeing my friends and talking about things that weren’t all baby, baby, baby (and no I’m not going to break out into a Justin Bieber song). OK, so sometimes we talked about babies. There were three of us mummies and one mummy to be in the group after all 🙂

Then this last Saturday evening, I was driving home from a quick trip to the shops to return some DVDs to the rental shop (yes we still rent DVDs from an actual shop). It got me thinking. What would I have been doing at that time on a Saturday night before I fell pregnant (not much more than a year ago)?

Oh, that’s right. I would have been making/buying myself a terrible dinner consisting of either hot chips, something else that was processed and stuck in the oven or maybe breakfast cereal (the pre-nightclubbing breakfast dinner of champions)! I would have most likely been home alone because my husband was working away a lot at that point (FIFO) and my stereo would have been loud as I sang along to every brand new song I’d had time to listen to, download and sync to my iPod. I would have finished dinner and started trying on every outfit in my wardrobe, just wandering aimlessly from room to room of my house for a few hours until magically, I was looking amazingly dolled up and somehow all the clothes I’d ever owned (we’re talking short skirts, sexy tops and little black dresses) were on my bed. I would shrug my shoulders and think “Oh well, I’ll get to that later”. I’d head out at say 9pm and the night’s events would go as follows:

– Hang out in a seedy pub with my friends

– Declare it too seedy for ladies such as ourselves to be seen in (bahaha)

– Move to another bar where we’d decide it was too quiet

– Have a deep and meaningful discussion/argument over when was too early/late to head to a nightclub

– Dance about in one club and decide the music was too crap

– End up at the nightclub which is named after an exotic bird, but is not really an exotic place but at least the music was alright and the dancefloor was always just full enough and usually I’d run into my brother and his friends or a bunch of other people we knew

– Decide we’d had enough of clubbing when the music turned into crazy rave beats and a headache started setting in

I’d then go home, crawl into bed (after shoving all my clothes that I’ve ever owned onto the floor), pass out and wake up at 10am the next day (which is when I’d do the dishes from my awful dinner and put my clothes away).

I would spend all of Sunday morning lying on the couch watching trashy shows on my DVR and loving every moment of it!

Oh how things change!

Nowadays I spend most of my weekend nights in (not including casual dinners at other peoples’ houses), unless there’s something really really important on like an engagement party or wedding. I whiz about getting ready in a matter of minutes (not dawdling for hours) and find myself dressed in clothes that cover all my stretch marks (which I picked out in my mind HOURS OR DAYS AGO in order to save time). If I’m feeling particularly wild and rebellious I will throw on a necklace and earrings (stuff a baby normally loves to grab and pull). I might even have time to blowdry some volumiser through my hair! Sometimes I can even convince myself that I can still rock a smokey eye or a bit of snazzy eye shadow. Yes, I just used the word “snazzy”. The transformation to dorky parent is almost complete. The only need for multiple outfit changes is if the baby spews on me, dribbles on me or proves that I am likely to have a wardrobe malfunction later (by pulling things apart with his little monkey hands).

I’m usually home long before midnight and as I sneak my sleeping babe (who might have stayed a few hours at his grandparents’ place) to bed, I feel relieved that everything’s fine and in the morning I’ll have enough energy to enjoy him.

This month it’s all going to change. Not entirely by my choice. You see, I’m part of a bridal party for a wedding and where there’s a wedding there’s also a hens night to plan and execute. There are also several planning meetings and related commitments. I am so excited for my beautiful friend and bride to be, as well as honoured to be given such an important and special role in her big day, but this forces my hand. I have to face the fact that at some point this month I am going to have to let someone else look after my little man for a WHOLE NIGHT at a time. I’m going to have to let someone else feed him, change him, bathe him, settle him and know when he needs to nap. I know that all of his grandparents are very capable people (hello – my husband and I are alive and kicking so that proves it right?) but you see, I am a worry wart.

Don’t get me wrong. I have left him in his grandparents’ capable care several times for a while at a time. I don’t mind if other people cuddle, feed or bathe him (and they have – I’ve just always been around). I’ve just never attempted a throwback to my old life since he was born. I’ve never left all that responsibility to someone else completely for 24 hours or so. I know that those who care for the Little Mister will do a great job and even if it’s not the same way I’d do it, he will come out of it alive and happy in the end (even if his sleep is a bit off). It’s more that I worry for his loving, generous babysitters. What if they have a bad time with him because they don’t know him the way I do (all those little tricks that seem specific to his quirky personality)?? I don’t want to just be someone who dumps their grumpy baby with someone and forgets about it for the night. I think I’d feel bad! I also don’t want to leave some kind of mum-zilla like 10 page document with them on how to care for him because, well…that would be insane and insulting!

I’m going to have to relax. Or be sedated. Hmm. Carefree and childfree no longer belong in the same sentence! Child free? Not so care free!

I’m sure I’ll let you know how it all went (perhaps I’ll like it so much I’ll hire a nanny and become a professional party animal who wears skimpy leopard print and stripper shoes all the time) – how my life has turned upside down in the last year!!

What are you worrying about this week? Let it all out – free therapy 🙂

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