This weekend I packed up the kid, my vintage-inspired white on black dress, faux pearls, and a wallet of singles to give to bartenders and I headed off to Staten [Saten?] Island for a wedding. I’d like to note that nothing in this world excites me more than free booze, free food, dancing, and passing out in a hotel bed with my husband.

Everything started off great. I pre-gamed at a friends house with uh, iced coffee and a Marlboro 27 while my husband went off to do his groomsmen duties. I showered, shaved, plucked, and squeezed into spanx, and my form fitting dress. I mentally prepped myself for an evening of finger foods, and Jameson shots but my heart wasn’t in it. While I was getting ready in my hotel room all I could think was “how awesome would it be if I could just put on my jammies, order up some Indian food, and read in this king size bed?”

My party face wasn’t very convincing. My husband was tired, the food was medicore, and all I could think about was the three novels I had waiting in my air conditioned room waiting for me. I didn’t want to dance, and I didn’t want to drink because I didn’t want to be hungover the next morning. If I was hungover I might miss the FREE breakfast they offered! And since I’m baby-free, I want to take advantage and take a nice long shower, and sneaking donuts up to our room to eat in bed.

When did I get so old? When did 25 become 52? When did the thought of drinking beers until the sun came up sound so positvely DIRTY?  When does the thought of sleep sound more enticing then dancing the night away?

Motherhood changed me and It’s not a bad thing.

My husband and I spent four days last week in NYC to attend a very good friend’s wedding. I think I’ve just about recovered. What I mean exactly is, although my clothes are all still strewn about in various suitcases, I believe I’ve finally shaken the hangover from the weekend.

FOUR. DAYS. LATER.

The weekend marked a reunion of some sorts for myself and my three college roommates. Which, of course, translated into lots of story-telling, a large quantity of alcohol and some wonderful displays of dancing to old familiar songs (preceeded by ear-drum-shattering-shrieking when said song was played).

While it was an amazing time, with lots of interesting pictures to prove just how much fun I had, the hangover I had from three nights of partying like a college student left me with one question: When did I turn into a senior citizen?

Seriously. Although I graduated from college a good eight years ago, it’s as though my body has aged a decade for every year I’ve been in the real world. Hangovers don’t just bring exhaustion and a craving for greasy food anymore–oh no–they bring migranes, back pain, heartburn and dry heaving. The only thing missing is some Metamucil and a subscription to “Arthritis Today.” Possibly also some Wheel of Fortune.

I don’t regret a second of the weekend and would do it all over again, even the “just one more drink” part. And it WAS really nice to be able to lay around and watch trashy television while I felt like crap instead of chasing after my kid. Being properly hungover should involve lots of Gatorade, Advil and ice packs rather than the usual Teletubbies playing and re-playing, Leapfrog table whooping and endless removing of the dog’s rawhide bone from my son’s mouth.

On Sunday, I announced to my husband that we were going to “take it easy” for awhile and recuperate from our trip. He smirked at me and reminded me that we have out-of-town friends visiting us this weekend. Friends who love to stay out late. Childless friends. And Cubs tickets. Which translates into: Maureen Is Dead.

Wheel of Fortune, here I come!

I used to drink. A lot. Too much, really, for someone with my family history and proclivity for creating chaos and drama. So I stopped. About 8 months ago. And life has gotten much better…. but that’s a story for another time.

Like many imperfect parents, I’m more or less a very good parent on most days… but this requires a certain amount of concentrated effort and a whole lot of help. I used to get help in a bottle, and now I get help from a variety of sources.

But I still need and want a vice.. something that serves no other purpose than pleasure and rebellion. A way to cut loose and be onesself without getting mistaken for a “ma’am” or a “sir”… or someone who is, say, turning 40.

I like to joke about starting a respite center for mothers staffed with hot Italian boys (or girls, depending on your preferences).. and I’m only sort of joking. Seriously, it’s so very easy to take parenting too farging seriously these days.

But the thing is, I miss having a vice. I don’t want anything life or health or marriage threatening, just something to spice things up and remind me of the wild girl I used to be long long ago.

So when my friend told me of her new “thing” for nicotine-free cigarettes (doesn’t that sound like “no strings attached” sex?? nice idea but highly unlikely?), I thought I’d give them a try.

I’ll report back soon.. but until then.. any vices you’d recommend?

So, I’d like to clear a few things up.

To My Friends Who Do Not Have Their Own Spawn: I have a child, remember?

To My Friends Who Have Their Own Spawn: It’s OK to have a child AND a social life, remember?

Sadly, these clarifications are sorely lacking in my own social circles.

 My husband and I are at the weird age where some but not all of our friends have kids. We have the friends who have kids and have since year #1 of their marriage. I call them the Parental Posse. You know the kind–get married, get pregnant right away, forget all semblance of their twenties and/or fun and/or a life outside of their kids. The kind of friends who suddenly re-materialized once we had our own Blessed Event. These are the friends who only want to do things like go to the park or a baseball game. Which I’m all for–if there’s beer and a babysitter. But no, these friends can only participate in activities involving their own little miracles. And can’t ever meet you for dinner because they “Can’t find a babysitter” or “Little Susie has the flu” or “I’m attached to my child at the hip and can’t possibly function with other adults on a level not involving discussions about my child’s bodily functions.” (OK, the last one was mine.)

We also have plenty of the polar opposite: friends who are either single or married but have no desire to have children, at least not anytime soon. Our Drinking Buddies. These are the kinds of friends who ask us what we’re doing AFTER the bars close. As in, 2:00am. What our plans are. And snicker at how we’ve “changed” when I gently remind them that children don’t understand they need to sleep in on Saturdays when Mommy has a real bad red wine hangover. These are the friends who suggested we take Ryan, as in our eight-month old Demon Child, to a movie starting at 9pm on a Friday night. Want to know which movie? “No Country For Old Men.” Although Ryan is a huge fan of Cormack McCarthy’s books, “The Road” being his favorite, I think the other moviegoers would’ve chased me out with torches.

So, we can’t win. We are proud that we are able to make it out to a bar and people either snicker when we leave at midnight or they clutch their own children tightly, roll their eyes and whisper about how we’re trying to reclaim our youth. And I’m fine with that. It’s a balancing act and I’m thrilled I’ve been able to stay on the tightrope so far.