Sunday, 5 July 2009
School Run Mum
So, lessons in parenting #236. Don't go out for the first time on a night out with Reception mums and get exceedingly drunk. You will only be an embarrassment to both yourself and your 5 year old daughter.
I didn't even really want to go out, but I'd missed the first mums 'do' at the beginning of term. Now it's the end of term and I'm the class rep so I thought I should show my face on the organised drinkages. The plan was to only go for a couple of hours, show my face, then come home where all the neighbours were having a BBQ on a lovely sunny evening.
I did inform all the mums to get to the bar before 8, as it was 2 for 1 on cocktails showing that a) I'm cheap, b)I've been to this bar a fair few times before and c) I may enjoy an odd tipple here and there...
Obligingly they all turn up at 7,45pm, I encourage them to all get two drinks each rather than share the offer. Two Cosmopolitans slip down easily (yes, I still dream of being Carrie from Sex and The City. I need to get over it. So 1999). Waitress service to the table is dangerous. Half way through the second drink she asks so sweetly, 'Can I get you another drink?'...So in goes the order for a vodka and tonic, and another, and another.
I then have a 'Guess the age of the DJ' competition. Some start off at age 10, others, aim for 13, some say he's around 15, I am thinking a more respectable 22. I stumble over and ask him. He says, whilst guarding his equipment (no, not that equipment filthy, his DJ equipment), which he thinks I am going to pour my drink all over, 'How old do you want me to be?' Like he is some gigolo offering his services to a bored housewife. Which, to be fair sometimes I am. But I'm definitely not looking for a service. I just want to win a bet. He's 19. I scream. God, I am really getting old. He looks at me with pity in his big puppy dog eyes. I dance drunkenly. I make the mums form a dancing circle. No, not for handbags, but I drag dodgy looking blokes into the circle and ask them to perform their best moves. I whoop, I generally make an absolute idiot of myself and I don't leave until the ugly lights come on. I stagger home, missing the BBQ completely and end up hugging the big white telephone, talking to God at 5am.
To sum up. This is how to make an absolutely terrible impression with the school run mums. I shan't be running for class rep in year 1, funnily enough, and for the remaining three weeks I will be wearing my thankfully large sunglasses and avoiding all eye contact at the school gates. As I said, I'm an embarrassment. To myself and my daughter. Oh, the shame of it all...