I’ve come home after a night out with the preschool mothers carrying a pack of beer for husband and I to share. Tiny, Lilliputian sized Miller Lite bottles called ponies. I bought them at our local liquor store because they were yay high and amused me greatly.
"We could pretend to be giants", I told him. (There isn’t very much to do in the suburbs on a weeknight.) "We could pretend we are going to have height challenged friends over and we bought this beer out of solidarity for them. You know, like the couple from Little People, Big World. I love them. They are a couple of go-getters. I bet they accomplish more in a day with their adorable tiny bodies then I do in a week."
"Maybe that’s because you are busy buying tiny, overpriced beer at the liquor store instead of getting stuff done?" husband offered.
"Maybe I will stare at you while I drink every single one of these super cute little beers all by myself?" I offered back.
After we finished our booze, which was piled on top of the wine that I had with the ladies earlier, I was feeling that woozy "mom-tired drunk". Too much to drink, after a week of endlessly repeating the same tasks over and over again is what mom-tired drunk is.
Once upon a time after consuming this much alcohol I might have bribed the most sober person to take me to the Taco Bell. But tonight it makes me so drowsy all I crave is the sweet bliss of sleep. As much as I can get in before I’m awoken eyeball to eyeball with my son as he LOUDLY starts rattling off what he would like for Christmas which is 7 months away. Oh yeah, me and sleep are gonna get it on tonight.
It was about this time that a killer head cold and sore throat took up residence in my body. Bringing with it the housewarming gift of a set of chills and matching fever. So I am wobbly with booze and fever but insisting that I wash my face and put pajamas on. Which I will do no matter what state I’m in. Must wash face. Must put pajamas on. I’ve long since overcome the ritual of flicking the light switch on and off three times before hopping into bed but dammit I will hang on the sink to steady myself at 3 AM on New Years Eve to wash off my mascara.
At the halfway point I realize that I have no pajama pants with which to complete my ritual. But I’m at that freezing cold, shaky point of the fever and just want to burrow. So I take a running, pantsless leap into bed and start begging husband who passed out 5 minutes ago, "Pretty please go to the cold basement and get me some pj pants out of the dryer. Puhlease? Puhleasse?" I sound worse than my 4 year old daughter when she's overtired. I am annoying. But all I can think about is those pants. How their cottony softness will envelope my fevery body like fucking pajama Nirvana.
Those pants are imperative at this point and after much promising of future favors husband goes downstairs and gets them out of the dryer. Huffs back up the stairs. And then tries to hand them to me. But I am asleep, and he is standing there, holding my pants, ready to kick my tiny-beer buying, snoring, ass.