As parents of two young children, going out on a Saturday night is a rarity. In fact going out any night is a rarity. Going out to a party where you get to dress up in ridiculous 60s Austin Powers outfits with all your good friends therefore is something to get wildly excited about. And I have been for months. I've spent hours scouring the web for costumes that make us look ridiculous yet gorgeous at the same time. I booked the childminder months ago. Everything is sitting waiting in a state of excited anticipation for this evening's festivities.
Then this morning son 1 woke up with son 2's illness of the last week. His temperature hovered around the 40C mark. Despite this I still donned my optimistic 'he'll be fine by this evening' face and cracked on. I was just wondering how I was going to break it to my childminder that she was going to be looking after one seriously ill child and one recovering child when she called. To say that her father is being rushed to hospital and isn't looking good at all. So she won't be able to watch the boys after all.
This seemed to be karma's way of saying: yeah well, you shouldn't have been a bad mother and even thought of leaving them when they are ill. My husband kindly said that he would stay at home and look after the children and I could go to the party. He was being kind but he also knows that I am a woman on the edge having spent a week couped up with a sick child and a week before that travelling abroad on my own with the two of them while he lounged on the sofa watching football and eating curry. So had he suggested anything he else he'd have received a stab through the heart with a platform boot.
This sucks. It's one thing dressing up like a twat when you have a twat partner going with you. Arriving at a party looking like a twat all on your own is different. Less funny somehow. And I now have to do the hour long drive to the party on my own in my dress that is so short you can admire my tummy constraining knickers with ease. Should I break down on the side of the road I fear that my long blonde wig, fake eyelashes and white patent leather platform boots might send the wrong message to lorry drivers stopping to help.
Worst of all I don't get to see my husband dressed up in psychadelic pink flares with a long hippy wig. I'm going to force him to get dressed at home just so that I can get a picture of him and take it with me to the party as my date.
I may or may not be brave enough to post a picture of me in my finery on this blog. Wait and see. Must go practice my gogo girl dance moves now.