The anatomy of mom’s night out

In my professional opinion moms are the best human beings ever to go out with. When we go out we are the most rowdy hilarious exciting people wherever we go and it is all because we NEVER. GO. OUT. Maybe if we got out more, we wouldn’t act like a bunch of sorority girls on spring break. We’d be able to pace ourselves. But since there is no tomorrow for us (well, at least not another night out for a few months) we have to let loose and live it up while we can. And the night tends to take a particular course….

Freedom! We’re out. We don’t care if we look like shit because we got ready in five minutes (because we spent about ten hours preparing the kids and the babysitter so that it goes smoothly and she’ll come back again). We rock our slightly slutty outfit and make a beeline for the door.
First stop is food. Trendy restaurants are my pick. I can pretend I’m part of the adult world, eat my food without getting up to take a kid to the bathroom 47 times. This is my chance to act like an classy adult. I have a glass of wine. Talk about the kids sports schedules. Eat some weird appetizer and rave about how good this moldy cheese is. I don’t care…it’s not a chicken nugget!

Second glass of wine…the volume is slightly louder. We’re talking about our kids still, but now they’re assholes. We take selfies to document this night and prove we actually can function without kids. Where are we going next? A BAR!

Skip the wine…go for the cheap beer now. We forgot we have kids and are talking about anything but them. We sit, talk and laugh so hard about not having sex with our husbands.

Another cheap beer….the old washed up house band comes on. MUSIC!! You know mom’s night out isn’t complete without dancing. Ridiculous, probably way too suggestive dancing. They’re may even be twerking involved (if it’s me, I can guarantee it😏).

Meanwhile there’s like six husbands at the bar just staring and drinking quietly and you know they are only thinking, yes! I’m getting laid later. And are willing to put up with our silly goofy risqué dancing and yelling.

But alas, along comes midnight and if we don’t get home our coach turns into a pumpkin a.k.a. babysitter gets pissed and never comes back. After vowing to do this every weekend until the end of time and hugging and kissing like we will never see each other again, I get into my mom mobile and head home. And hit the bed hard. Poor Shawn. Not getting anything out of this

In the light of morning, a little wave of regret hits me, the amnesia about not having kids wears off, and I’m in the kitchen hunched over throwing cheerios at them. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat…or the next time I get a sitter. In 4-5 months….

The end of the night…not so pretty anymore, sweaty, doing some questionable dancing. And yes. Those are my shoes. On the counter. In a dirty bar. Real classy.

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