By the end of each long day, that glass of wine (or bottle) became the superhero cape I would drape over my shoulders, rescuing me from the chaos of bedtime negotiations and providing quiet relief after an argument about utter foolishness: like why we don’t put the cat in the washing machine.
Alfie slept through the night almost immediately, never cried, and for the most part, it felt like I didn’t even have a second child - and my wine consumption slowly began to increase.
I stopped drinking when I got pregnant with my eldest son, Arthur, in 2013 and once he was born, I actually started to better moderate my alcohol consumption - not because I wanted to - but because getting up at 5am on a raging hangover was utterly soul-destroying.
In fact, the only time I enjoyed motherhood was from about 4pm, when I could open a bottle of Pinot - a reasonable and socially acceptable time - without being considered an alcoholic.
I loved the chaos and drama of booze-filled nights out, and I loved to get so drunk that the end result was always black out, vomiting or waking up in unfamiliar surroundings with a banging headache.
