Guilt kept me awake last night. I was wracked with it.
I’ve done something akin to letting my 10-year watch Game of Thrones or smoke or go to the mall with a full face of make-up.
I taught her how to make cocktails.
*hangs head in shame*
I didn’t mean to do it, but she wore me down.
She’d been pestering me for days, ever since I came home from work with a proper cocktail-making kit.
She was totally fascinated by all the shiny pieces.
So I gave in and showed her how to make a virgin mojito. She muddled the mint leaves and sugar and fresh lime juice together then shook herself up a delicious concoction.
And I suppose the sin wouldn’t have been too bad if I’d stopped at that point. But, no, I got her to make me an espresso martini.
And now – belatedly – I’ve realised that’s NOT in the good parenting manual.
It reminds me of the night we took the 12-year-old to the hospital when she was a toddler because she’d been vomitting after tripping over her dad’s ugg boot and hitting her head on the corner of the wardrobe … And then finding an old baby bottle of milk under the sofa and drinking it …
That trailer trash tale got the DOCS alarm bells ringing for hospital staff as they asked us to retell the story a couple of times, searching for inconsistencies …
At least that incident was an accident.
Yesterday, on the other hand … I just don’t think things through sometimes.
My weekend has featured a few guilty moments.
You’d think I’d have a bit more common sense at 48. But no, I’m like a bull in a china shop. I blithely crash about, then survey the damage and think WHAT HAVE I DONE and beg for forgiveness and have insomnia for a week.
Though, it was a very good espresso martini, just needed a bit more foam on top …
Please don’t call DOCS.
Song of the day: Elvis “All shook up”