I was called to Yellowknife, our regional centre, for muckety-muck meetings with the MotherCorp's northern senior management. It was part of what management types call a "visioning exercise": what did we want to be in five years? Ten? Twenty? I was the Inuvik rep.
As most people from the smaller communities are when visiting Yellowknife, I was keen to go shopping and eat in restaurants. I went to one of the local shops with a few of the other reporters, and came out empty-handed. Nothing fit. Not the clothes in my size. Not the clothes in the next size up. They just didn't fit right. What a downer.
All was well, though: there was a pub around the corner from the mall. We ordered big, pink, girly drinks. Then we ordered some more. And then we ordered some more. We were really, really drunk by the time we staggered out the door and headed home.
The next morning was not one of my better mornings, but I am not the sort of person to call in "hungover" to work. I went back to the meetings. That day I was very conscious of the fact that I had to go to the bathroom a lot. It's one thing to constantly excuse yourself during an evening of binge drinking to drown the sorrows of unsuccessful shopping trips, but quite another to constantly excuse yourself during your boss's boss's boss's presentation about Reflecting Canada To Canadians.
"HAHAHAHAHA," I thought to myself in the hallway outside the meeting room during one of my unscheduled breaks. "I sure have to pee a lot! I'm either diabetic or I'm preg -- wait a minute..."
Fortunately, I had plenty of pee for the stick. There were two lines.
I spent the next six months desperately quizzing doctors and nurses about fetal alcohol spectrum disorder.
My son is fine. No thanks to me.
1 comments:
Part of that was my fault. I was the one pushing drinks on you!
For the record, your kid is beyond fine. Your kid is amazing.
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