Baby's Gone To Rehab

I COULDN'T wait for my husband to get back from the shops. It was Friday – my one night of the week when I could drink.

Before I’d been pregnant with Anais I’d party two or three times a week, necking rioja like it was ribena.

But morning sickness that lasted nine months and a year’s breastfeeding had turned me into a teetotaller.

My body – and liver – were now my own again and I was ready to road test my alcohol limit.

So I’d sent Alexio off to do the supermarket to pick up a cheeky red or two.

Now all I had to do was bath the baby, tidy up and persuade my six-year-old son that Strictly really was better than Ben 10.

‘Come on Princess,’ I smiled at Anais. ‘Bath, book and bed.’ She grinned at me, then toddled off in the opposite direction, dragging her best friend with her.

She had a vast selection of dolls but Baby Rosie was her absolute BFF.

Whatever Anais did, Baby did too. My little girl would kiss her, cuddle her, feed her a bottle and put her to bed. It was all I could do to keep Baby out of the bath.

‘Leave Baby here, she wants to watch the dancing,’ I giggled, picking up Anais and heading to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, she was happily asleep in her cot, and I could smell Alexio cooking downstairs.

More importantly, I heard the glug of wine being poured into a glass. ‘Aaah,’ perfect, I sighed, taking a sip.

The fruity, rich rioja caressed my taste buds, making me smile. ‘I’ve missed you,’ I announced, taking another sip, then another…

By the time I’d finished my ravioli half the bottle was gone.

‘Better pace myself,’ I thought, grabbing the half-empty bottle to drink while watching celebs in sequins trying not to trip over their own feet.

‘I’ll tidy up later,’ I said, pushing the toys and Baby aside to sit on the sofa.

The rioja slipped down far too easily. I felt my shoulders relax, laughed at Brucie’s jokes, even agreed that my son could watch the entire Harry Potter film collection in bed.

Alexio had a glass too. ‘It’s the only way I can endure this dancing nonsense,’ he muttered.

But soon, thanks to the wine, we were scoring each celebrity, discussing Tess Daly’s dress and Alesha Dixon’s attempts to be the new Cheryl Cole.

And when we realised that bottle had gone, Alexio uncorked another. By the end of Strictly our teeth and lips were black, and everything was suddenly so funny.

We were laughing so much our son stormed downstairs to tell us to be quiet. ‘I can’t hear my film,’ he complained, rolling his eyes. ‘And if you carry on you’ll wake up Anais.’

I tried to act sober. But his stern face was making me want to laugh. Then Alexio started to giggle and that set me off too.

Deme stormed off, disgusted with his silly, black-mouthed parents, but we were having a great time.

We chatted on, raided the kids’ crisp and sweet cupboard and even had a cushion fight.

‘Take that,’ I giggled, hurling a giant fluffy one at Alexio. He ducked, then threw a leather cushion back.

It was coming straight at me, so I swerved, lost my balance and began to fall. I put out my arm to save myself – and knocked my last glass of red wine all over the floor.

‘Oh no,’ I yelled, considering whether to suck up the spreading pool of rioja. It was such a waste and I’d mopped the wooden floor that morning. But as I bent down, I gasped.

Baby was lying prostrate on her back covered in red wine. Her babygro was soaked, her long blonde hair matted with rioja, her soft body wet through.

‘Look what I’ve done,’ I said, holding the wine-ruined doll up. Alexio shook his head. ‘Let’s put it in the washing machine,’ he suggested.

But I could tell it was ruined. The doll’s body was soft but its limbs were plastic. There was no way we could save it.

So, ashamed and full of guilt, I went to bed.

This morning – after taking two painkillers and drinking a litre of water - I inspected Baby. She stank like a wino and was stained beyond recognition. Time for the dolly to go to rehab, I decided.

‘Sorry Baby,’ I said, throwing her in the bin before Anais woke up. All morning my poor little girl’s been searching for her BFF.

So now I’m off to buy a replacement. This one won’t be called Baby Rosie though. I think Amy or Britney would be better. That way she’ll survive my slummy mummy Friday nights.