Jan
14
I have received several emails in the last month that all touch on the same topic, which is whether or not I’ve mentioned why I don’t drink. If you’ve been reading for a longish time, you know at least part of my story, although obviously I haven’t detailed every last sordid part of the tale here.
For those of you who have joined more recently, the short answer is this: I don’t drink because I was, or I suppose the correct term is am, an alcoholic. I spent years of my life drinking on a regular basis. Drinking for the specific purpose of getting drunk, for the most part. I never could have one glass of wine and I still can’t wrap my head around the concept that there are people in the world who can. You mean you don’t finish the glass and have another and another and empty the bottle then switch to mixed drinks and eventually wake up with a vicious, soul-destroying hangover, the only coherent thought in your head something along the lines of oh my god this sucks when can I have another drink? Huh. What’s that like.
Somewhere around 2003 things got downright pathological, and I was drinking a lot of straight vodka from bottles I’d hidden around the house. On a day in 2004 I started drinking in the morning, was drunk at work and made a complete ass of myself, and got a DUI when I drove home. I’d say that night was my rock bottom, but actually, it was probably the 24 hours I had to spend in jail several months later, as part of my sentence.
The DUI was a horrifying, shameful, endless (so many, many months of court appearances, fines, and court-ordered classes) wakeup call, and I stopped. I’d guess even that wouldn’t have kept me from drinking for too long, but then I was pregnant. And the months went by with no drinking and life became a thousand times richer and more real than it had ever been when viewed through the haze, and I was free from the self-loathing, the sickness, the endless cycle of when am I going to have that next drink, and while I can’t say there haven’t been a million times when I wished I could have a nice relaxing beer or something I know it’s never just one. Never.
People have sometimes asked me how I knew I had a problem and I don’t quite know how to answer. I always knew I had a problem, I guess, and in the last years before I quit it had become this terrible, hellish treadmill I thought I’d be trapped on forever. It was something a little more than a problem at that point, really.
There’s a great line in Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions where she talks about wanting a drink when her baby is first born, just one to help with the stress of it all. And she says something about how she knows, though, that if she did go to the liquor store to buy the bottle for that one drink, she may as well put her baby on the counter along with her money, because if she has the drink, she’ll lose it all.
So there it is, the Reader’s Digest version of why I don’t drink. I own the mistakes I’ve made and I continue to think about them and deal with them, and I’ll tell you, as nervous as it makes me to confess all this to you, I can’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t.
Jan
13
I never thought I would have a year-old baby who still isn’t sleeping through the night, but unless Dylan gets it all figured out in the next few weeks, that’s exactly the situation I’m in. It’s not ideal by any means, but as long as 1) he stays asleep from his bedtime until at least 11 or so, giving me those mission-critical few hours of downtime, and 2) he wakes up only once or twice and goes back down with a minimum of fuss, it’s doable. I GUESS.
It’s certainly not as bad as it used to be, what with the screaming and the screaming and oh yeah the scuh-reaming, but I do hate the inconsistency. I put him to bed at 7 and it’s anyone’s guess as to what happens next. He could sleep straight on through until 6 AM (very rare), sleep until 2 AM and wake up demanding a bottle (fairly common), wake up at 9-goddamned-thirty and refuse to go back to sleep until midnight then wake back up at 5 (not sure what this one was all about but it happened last night and suuuuucked).
During the Time of the Wee-hour Screamfests I’m not sure if we made a real, textbook attempt at crying it out or not. There were definitely some nights when there was a whole shitload of crying, but I was so addled by the whole thing I kept going in or not going in based on random data points like how clinically crazy I felt at any given moment, rather than the scheduled comfort visits as recommended in various sleep training methods. Sometimes he would cry no matter what I did, so what was there to do but put him back in his crib and pray his furious blattings eventually exhausted him while I lay in my own bed staring at the ceiling praying for death relief? I’ll tell you one thing, that kid had stamina. He could outcry any Ferber expert, and he could outcry any AP fan who dared to bring him into bed, where he would yell and kick and thrash his way around the mattress.
It was so awful for a while that I hardly dare complain about having to get up once or twice, but still: dude. It’s been almost twelve months. Riley slept like a champ starting at eight weeks, and I honestly just assumed that’s what babies did, unless, you know, you screwed things up somehow. Ha ha ha. Ha?
On the plus side, there is no feeling in the world like a baby nestling into your chest, making himself comfortable in order to fall asleep on your body — even if it’s at 3 in the morning. I know he won’t do this forever. Every day I hope he’ll stop, and then I think: wait.
In other news, do you mind if I take a moment to plug Bodies in Motivation? Because seriously, there is some very cool stuff over there, and I can say that because the majority of it isn’t written by me. There are awesomely inspirational success stories, calls for reader advice; a growing list of bloggers who are sharing the good, the bad, and the totally-relatable; and much more. If you’re not already visiting, I’d be honored if you stopped by. Any feedback is more than welcome!
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