For the first time in aeons, Mummy and Daddy have been invited to a party! An actual real-life, grown up party with dancing and drinking and music and other people that don’t have babies! Mummy and Daddy are very excited and, against their better judgement, decide that yes it is perfectly possibly to go to a party and have a Good Night Out with a baby in tow, so willingly accept their lovely invitation.
This is not just any party, however. It is millions of miles away in the Peak District, so Mummy and Daddy must book a hotel and pack their bags and take all the things a baby will need. Which is a lot of things. But none of this matters, because Mummy and Daddy are having a Good Night Out! Together! Which is something they have not done for at least six months. Mummy is very excited.
Not only is the party a million miles away – it is a fancy dress party! A roaring twenties themed extravaganza, in a posh hotel with champagne and grown ups and all things roaring and lovely. So Mummy and Daddy find costumes and make-up and – because Mummy is ridiculously excited about her Good Night Out – she even bloody makes The Baby a teeny tiny costume too… that is how excited Mummy is about being allowed to go to the grown-up party. It is going to be a wonderful evening!
It takes forever to get to the Peak District and forevermore to unload the car when they get there, because Mummy has brought everything in the world they could possibly need so that nothing will stand in the way of their Good Night Out.
Except a bra.
In her excitement, Mummy has forgotten a non-nursing bra to wear with her dress and all plans of frivolity have to be momentarily suspended whilst Mummy demands an emergency search for the nearest Marks and Spencer because no, she can’t “Just go without one!” Daddy, thank you very much. Thanks to her passive-aggressive (and sometimes actual-aggressive) determination, an M&S is very quickly located and plans for the Good Night Out are back on track with minimal delay. Rebel Baby is very excited indeed, though has no idea why. She is squealing and smiling and jumping around, no doubt sensing something wonderful is about to happen.
Thanks to some carefully timed car-napping, Mummy reckons RB can be persuaded to enjoy a good 2-3 hours of the party before she needs to retire to her boudoir, so merrily gets the little one ready in her glad-rags to meet friends and family and have a marvellous time. We will swish and mingle and drink champagne, thinks Mummy, or at least Prosecco, because SMP. The baby and I, in our co-ordinating ensembles, will chat and sparkle like 1920s pop stars on our Good Night Out.
Mummy was not entirely wrong… there is, at least, Champagne. And RB looks bloody awesome in her little costume. For about five minutes.
It soon becomes apparent that Mummy and Rebel Baby have very different ideas about what constitutes a Good Night Out. Everyone wants to hold The Baby, but everyone is wearing feathers and pearls and dangly earrings, which Rebel Baby likes to grab very much indeed. She likes to chew them even better. Before long, everyone is passing The Baby back to Mummy, whose Good Night Out plans had largely hinged on palming The Baby off to various adoring relatives. Damn. But no matter. There is a Plan B.
Mummy likes to stand and sway and chat merrily, with her adorable 1920’s baby on her sparkly fringed hip and a glass of bubbly in her hand. The Baby wants to run around on the floor, but can’t stand up yet and requires Mummy to hold her while she pretends she can do it. At speed. If Mummy doesn’t do it, The Baby wriggles and squirms and thrusts and planks until Mummy holds her standing up on the floor and lets her pretend she can run around fast. This is her Very Favourite Thing To Do In The Whole World and ANYTHING ELSE will not do. As such, Mummy has been at the party less than ten minutes before she is scrabbling about on the floor and ripping holes in her fishnets while RB squeals with excitement.
After much floor-scrabbling and faux-running, Mummy’s back is breaking and her knees are grazed. She decides to do the thing she promised she would never do and placate The Baby with a biscuit. Just one biscuit. For it is a Good Night Out and therefore treats are acceptable. Mummy doesn’t generally buy biscuits due to her impressive ability to consume an entire packet in less time than it takes to boil a kettle, but she got some as a free sample in a baby pack that promise to be made entirely of apples and fresh air so are definitely good for The Baby. Probably.
The biscuit goes down a treat and Mummy enjoys all of the 0.5 seconds of peace and calm it affords her. So she decides it won’t harm The Baby to give her just one more biscuit, as clearly the poor mite was hungry and needed the energy for all of her running and partying.
Soon, Mummy is knocking back her champagne, followed by Daddy’s champagne, followed by miscellaneous champagne, and Rebel Baby is troughing through biscuits like they are going out of fashion, dribbling lumps of partially-gummed wafer down her handmade ballgown and depositing a trail of soggy crumbs in her oh-so-adorable feather boa. In fact she is also eating the feather boa, but Mummy pretends not to notice because she can’t face any more floor time. There are crumbs stuck to Mummy’s dress and snot-encrusted trails of doughy apple slowly drying on Mummy’s arm. “What a lovely night out!” trills Mummy. RB finishes the last biscuit and starts soliciting further snacks from nearby party goers whilst Mummy’s head is turned. It is clear that without a steady supply of sugar or a great deal of tights-wrecking effort on Mummy’s part, The Baby is not going to last much longer. She is rubbing her eyes with her drool-slimed fists and making irritated, impatient grizzling noises which are only just drowned out by the music. Try as she might, Mummy is forced to admit defeat. Her Good Night Out has lasted all of forty five minutes.
Mummy and her whinging, feather-clad bundle of sweat and saliva reluctantly withdraw to the bedroom, where Rebel Baby drinks herself into a milk stupor and falls asleep half-naked, wrapped in pearls and sequins, with one sticky hand down Mummy’s newly-acquired M&S bra. Daddy is downstairs partying with Uncle Doc and Aunty Pinterest, who sensibly left their children at home with Grandparents. Next time thinks Mummy, exhausted, and retires to bed with a complimentary cup of tea and miniature oat and raisin cookies. A perfect end to a Good
Night Forty Five Minutes Out.