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It's like this, and like that....

I started this blog in an effort to track my experiences with pregnancy and beyond. Writing is therapeutic. Kind of like talking to myself without the people in WalMart thinking I'm crazy. If you find some entertainment in this along the way, then even better!

This is one woman's journey through unfathomable hunger, vivid sex dreams and a bulging belly...from conception to birth in 9 months or less...

Alcohol Does Not Define Me, It Simply Entertains Me

Thursday, October 29, 2009

This past weekend I spent 4 days out of town for Girls Weekend. This was spent with my mother and her crew of friends, at a place called The Glen just across the border. It’s like camping for fancy pants people. There are nice trailers with add-a-rooms (a term just learned by me) complete with table lamps and hardwood floors, heat, toilets, showers and tarp covered camp fires. You eat, talk trash and make crude jokes, and most of all, spend time with your lady friends, drinking and being merry.

That is, unless you’re the first and only pregnant lady to ever grace a girl’s weekend at The Glen, and then you’re required to skip the drinking part.

Don’t get me wrong, it was still an awesome amount of fun. In a group ranging from the tender age of 23 (one of the other daughters to be invited) to the even more tender age of 53, it’s almost impossible not to. And when you see a fully grown, but slight woman prancing around in her friends bra, stuffed to the breaking point with socks to fill it out, while pretending to dry hump said bra owner from behind, you know you’re truly in a group of women not afraid to have a good time.

The flip side to this joyous occurrence is of course, what prompted said outward display, and many others throughout the weekend and that is of course our friend alcohol. No ladies weekend would be complete without a few beverages, but on this particular weekend, the shots they were a flowing.

Every woman (of which there were 12) had her own special concoction. This party has happened 2 times per year, over the last several years, and they all have their usuals. This being my first, and me being pregnant, I contributed only with food. However the other ladies MORE than made up for it. There were blowjobs and orgasms, bazooka joe’s and kimmy’s, and not to mention everyone’s favourites, tequila and Lemoncello.  If you don’t know what Lemoncello is, and I didn’t, it’s apparently an Italian liqueur which tastes like lemon pledge, and which will shine up your insides right.

And I’ll say again, it was a lot of fun, but with so much time devoted to shots and martinis, and the subsequent high pitched laughing fits that followed, I couldn’t help but feel a little left out. As I said above, alcohol may not define me, but it sure does its part in the entertainment.

I was of course able to join in, no worries, on all the fun. I rolled with the punches, kept my wit sharp and my fauxtini topped up, and even stayed up until 2-3am all 3 evenings. I was a trooper it was said many times, and I truly did enjoy myself, I just wished so hard I could join in the festivities, if even for an hour.

This is not to say I wished for even a millisecond that I was not pregnant. My little bean enjoyed the weekend as much as I, with a constant supply of tasty treats and the jovial laughing of 12 women enjoying each other’s company, who wouldn’t. I felt many a kicks and rolls from the bean, and if nothing else, I was comforted by the fact I knew I truly was carrying another life inside me. It can be easy to forget in this first half of pregnancy, with sporadic movement and the ability to still see ones toes.  But there the bean was, reminding me that mama you’re doing the right thing. And I knew it all along. However, that’s not to say I didn’t wish I had attended one of these events pre-pregnancy, as I am sure it would have been a blast to participate.

My husband has sometimes made the somewhat sick, but also intriguing joke that it would be nice if we could just put the baby on hold for one evening, so I could enjoy the better part of a bottle of wine. You know, if we could just pause time, or put the baby in some sort of external incubator for a short period, so mama could get her drink on. This may have been the only time I saw relevance in this idea.

I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about this. I’m not weak or alcoholic enough to truly feel sad about my inability to indulge in binge drinking. I do not for a moment regret being pregnant, and I would not ever consider trading in my bean for a bottle. It was just one of those times where you truly realize that some things are just better with a cocktail. I’ve spent copious amounts of time at parties, on trips and otherwise indulging in activities where alcohol is a prominent guest (can you say weekly ladies nights) and I’ve never once mourned the loss of my wine glass. But on this particular weekend, as my bean and I sat, cold and wet around a campfire plagued by northwestern October weather, I couldn’t help but think I’d be watching the clock less and letting my hair frizz more, if only I’d have a couple of drinks.

Of course the glass is half full side to this entire story is that, I never once woke up with a headache so bad and a thirst so voracious I thought I had been left to die in the dessert. I did not face the early morning wake up, where I laid there wishing I could sleep some more, but instead being kept awake by the increased sound of my heart beating. I did not face the bottle of Tums wondering if 2 is really the maximum I can take, or spend 26 minutes contemplating my ability to stomach a cup of coffee. I did not look haggard and worn (well comparatively, I was still fancy camping), feel like my mouth was made out of muppet skin or forget where I’d placed my watch. No, I woke up refreshed and alive, after a great night’s sleep in the quiet dark woods, ready to seize the day and hit the outlet malls. I woke up with a full memory of the night’s festivities (much to the chagrin of my fellow attendees) and the ability to breathe out through my nose, without tasting Vodka.

So I guess in the end, as much as I missed the parade of shots heading to the mixer in my stomach, churning there until morning when all the worst guests had to be evacuated in one gaseous form or another, I didn’t really miss anything and all.

And my bean and I? Well we’re just that much closer for it. 

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