There was a time when I really believed I was a better mom when I was just a little bit stoned, or after I’d had a glass or two of wine. A little bit more flexible, fluid, a little bit more understanding and forgiving. Better able to get down on the floor, get on their level and follow their lead. I’m embarrassed to admit it until I think of the massive culture of moms and white wine. Mommy juice! Tea towels that say, “This mom runs on wine!” or “It’s Mama’s turn to wine!” or “New drinking game: Take a drink every time someone says ‘Mommy’!” or, more blunt: “Mama needs a cocktail.”
Moms and drinking! Moms and wine! The happy homemaker, cheerfully overstimulated, winking at you from the kitchen while uncorking a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. If you subscribe to a certain brand of no fucks given Starbucks-drinking Range Rover-driving life, drinking and motherhood go hand in hand. When I got pregnant, I never thought I would be any version of a happy homemaker, I never thought I’d be the benevolent martyr. I knew I was selfish, I knew I was going to have a hard time with some aspects of the sacrifice required with motherhood. And before I got pregnant I knew I loved to drink, and loved to get stoned. I laughed and tossed around self deprecating jokes about being the stoner mom, the party mom, the kind of weird and bad mom. Not bad bad, but naughty.
