I'm going to a work do tonight. An actual do, in Mayfair with work colleagues who have come in from all over Europe for the event.
I have a monthly call with my manager to kind of 'stay in touch' while I go about the business of being an around -the-clock mother, and he suggested I come along.
If anything, for the free champagne.
This means I will need to do things like brush my hair and put some lipstick on. Crikey.
My primary concerns are as follows:
1) My boobs will explode.
I will miss two whole feeds. Consecutively. Where's the problem? You may ask. Well, my laden udders are used to expelling themselves of milk every three hours. There will be build up. And while making conversation with a group of Swedes - or worse, the Germans - they might just overfloweth in a resounding lactose avalanche over everyone.
Or be very leaky.
2) More than two glasses of champagne
...might just kill me. Must. Pace. Myself.
Or be that person who got too drunk at the office party. ('Who let her out?')
3) Try not to talk about my child too much
My world is very small at the moment. My world is a Groundhog Day of feeding, cuddling, holding and nappy changing my 12 week old. He is the centre of my universe, and I am obsessed with him.
I also have an addiction to buying baby clothes on eBay of bipolar proportions that I probably shouldn't tell anyone about.
In ordinary terms: I don't have much chat.
My only hope of conversational survival is the news. I watch or listen to the news most hours of the day. Which is handy considering our jobs all revolve around the news. (I'm in PR.....)
4) I still have childbearing hips
And a stomach that not so long ago carried twins. My wardobe is limiting and limited. What will I wear?
5) Others feeling awkward about what has happened
And avoiding talking to me about anything birth or child related for fear of upsetting me or reminding me of Molly.
Hopefully we can all get through this topical minefield with the help of champagne.
('So...how is life...?..'). So fucking awkward. Best if they just straight up ask. Then I can touch on it and move the conversation on.
So. At worst?
My boobs explode in a resounding lactine crescendo over a bunch of continental Europeans, and/or I stumble out of there wearing a maxi dress, drunkenly apologising for making everything really awkward.
At best, it's a night out.