Parenting while Slightly Inebriated

Maybe I shouldn't have drunk that bottle of Mott's Caesar in the fridge when it was my turn to put Lucas into bed. I don't normally drink unless we're with friends because I am such a cheap drunk, but that tangy clamato mixer leftover from camping beckoned me after my long day at work. But once the alcohol lifted all my inhibitions, I wondered for a moment if I was being a "responsible" enough parent.

Then again, sometimes you have to throw bedtime routines out the window and have a tickle match with your kid.

We're lying on the family room floor and I don't know who's laughing harder. I squeeze his side and he dissolves into giggles, rolling away from me with a toothy "stop Mommy" then wiggling back for more. Then he attacks my belly button and I burst into laughter, tears streaming down my face. I find that spot where his neck and shoulder meet and he shrugs me away, then runs his little fingers under my knees in the spot my big brother always used to torment me. He smartly grabs my hands and I'm surprised at his 4-year-old strength. I pull my arms away and wrap them around him, pull him onto me, as we both fall back onto the floor to catch our breath.

I inhale this moment. Alcohol-induced maybe, but we've both accessed pure joy. 

Later we're in his bed with his current favourite book, "Amazing Cows: Udder Absurdity for Children" by Sandra Boynton, and I'm reading and re-reading the part where 80 cows are named "Tino" because it kills him each and every time. Everything about him is open - his beautiful eyes, his mouth, his spirit - laughing with such gutteral joy.

I want to record this sound and play it over and over on my iPod until my mind clears. A meditation of laughter.

Eventually, the lights go off and we're cuddling in his bed. The supposed routine is that I sing to him and then we're quiet for one minute before I kiss him goodnight and we yell a dozen "I love you's" at each other as I back out of the room. But tonight is different.

"Tell me what flavour slurpee you had today," I ask him. It's a trick because I know his daycare had 7-11 slurpees today but he's refused to tell us about it all evening.

"Yellow," he says.

"Ha! I knew it! So, was it yellow banana flavour or yellow lemon flavour?"

"No, it was moo-moo flavour," he says.

"Beef flavour?" I laugh.

"Yeah! Beef flavour slurpees!" he yells.

We are both killing ourselves again. We spend a good ten minutes discussing in increasing ridiculousness the idea of beef flavoured slurpees. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. Our cheeks are wet with our tears of laughter.

I want to bottle the tears so I can taste them again the next time I forget how funny life is.

Somehow I manage to exit the room. When I come down the staris, I look sheepishly at Hubby. "Maybe I shouldn't be so tipsy when I put him to bed," I say, embarassed now.

He just smiles broadly. "I loved hearing you both laugh." The look on his face is love for us.

I want to take a picture and store it with my other artifacts of bliss.

"Life is good," I say. It's my mantra. Its become our family's code phrase to tell the universe we appreciate this moment. I add, "Life is funny."