why mums drink wine

I’m not a big wine drinker anymore, but I’m not going to lie to you. Some days, I get to the end of the day, and my children leave me with no other option but to..
 
Pour.That.Glass.Fast
 





 

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Today was an exemplary case-in-point marking one such occasion.
 
A day that, children aside, I probably would have been more than happy to sip on my green tea and go to bed nice and early after gently massaging some rosehip oil into my cheeks and reading my 10th novel of the year to date. Oh, the memories!
 
But after the series of events that occurred this afternoon – in such swift succession and such condensed amount of time – even the doctor at the medical centre rapidly agreed with me that I may just require some of the fermented white grape liquid variety to take off the edge and release my mummy tension to the wind. Oh yeah, she also suggested Phenergan for my youngest in the same breath, so I knew that she meant business.
 
And despite the drama of the situation, I took refuge in the knowledge that I was not alone in my evening vino exploits. That there were mothers out there that had had far worse days than I had. Far, far worse. And I started to reflect – why was it that wine sometimes was simply the only thing that seemed to offer a plausible antidote to reverse the despair and desperation felt by mothers some days – even if the feelings were somewhat momentary and/or temporary in nature?
 
I used my own case-in-point as an initial foundation.
 
The day had started relatively routinely. My 2 year old awoke early at 5am and seemed to be scratching her foot slightly – but nothing to cause alarm or concern. Yet.
 
My 5 year old woke off the back of a little ‘naughty’ incident the previous day at school, but was ready for action and happily gobbled up her hot cross bun (slightly unhealthy, I know!) for breakfast (why am I even buying these yet? It’s how many weeks until Easter?!). We all walked to school, and aside from a burst water main in the middle of the road which was creating a mini gushing flood on our journey en route to school, all was good and hunky dory.
 
I traipsed my 2 year old around down the street, babychinos were had and the steep ascent up the hill home followed. She asked to be carried and I brushed her off with a “sweetie you’re old enough now to walk yourself. Just keep going we’re nearly there”.
 
It was about an hour later that I noticed she was still rubbing at her foot. And that her ankle had swollen to the size of a golf ball so that you couldn’t really distinguish any ankle at all, just swollen flesh around her foot. Guilty mother moment #1.
 
The doctors couldn’t fit her in until after school pickup, so we bided our time and held off until the afternoon to get it seen to.
 
We came to pick up time and I learn that there has been another little ‘naughty’ ‘sad face’ incident at school, punishment for which was no afternoon treat as previously anticipated.
 
The shit hit the fan. You could say this was the tipping point of the demise of the rest of the afternoon. Every mother knows this moment.
 
The wailing, no wait, HOWLING, continued all the way to the doctor’s surgery. I couldn’t hear myself think. My jaw was clenched shut tight with tension (I do a lot of yoga and meditation, but even this does not help in these particularly intense episodes of tumultuous tantraumatic behaviour).
 
We enter the medical centre with my 5 year old still virtually uncontrollable. My 2 year olds foot has increased yet again in size so that now she is walking on a slant to accommodate it. “Oh the poor thing”, says the receptionist. “She must be in so much pain”. Then I realise that she isn’t looking at my 2 year old.
 
“No”, I reply. “This isn’t the one seeing the doctor”.
 
We finally get in to see the doctor, and as she is examining my 2 year old’s foot, my 5 year old starts back up with the crying whilst at the same time hoovering in a muesli bar into her mouth, starts to cough and choke on the chunk stuck at the back of her throat so as the attention of the doctor is now shifted over to her, yoghurt muesli bar continues to spray everywhere until the chunk is recovered. Guess I should have been grateful we were in the right place should it have all gone pear-shaped.
 
Attention finally returns to the child at hand, and it is declared that she has ‘skeeter syndrome’, or, allergy to the saliva from mozzie bites. We ran through the range of symptoms, at the lesser scale fever and pain; at the more extreme case she could experience an anaphylactic reaction, cellulitis and the limb could double or triple in size. Fabulous.
 
The doctor then points to a bite on my own arm. “If that doesn’t go down, I’ll be sending you straight to the dermatologist”. Ok. Check.
 
Antibiotics and antihistamines in hand we return home and within minutes, the girls have accidently let the dog out onto the road, in which case he pauses, looks at me, and decides to trot up the road ignoring my instructions to get back inside. Even the dog is set to disobey me today.
 
One of my sisters (also with small kids) sometimes likes to say “Let’s bank this day” or “Let’s put this day in the bank”.
 
Definitely one for banking today.

​And if I can take my wine bottle to the bank too that will be just perfect!