The why's

I anticipate people asking me why I don't drink. And one of the reasons, maybe a small one that helps create a bit of levity and steer the conversation to a place where no one, particularly me, feels uncomfortable, is that I really had no desire to become a drunken mommy blogger. One who makes merry of tipsy play dates, that necessary half bottle of wine when the kids go down, only to repent when coming to the conclusion that our happy drinking mommy is now a source of misery to not only her family, but to herself.

Jokes about drinking are rife around my girls' school, and I was a big contributor. Last year, in an email conversation with my friend G, we were talking about a small gathering for the parents in our kids' classroom, kind of a getting to know everyone thing. I kidded that I was going to get soooo wasted, as I heard wine was on the agenda. I thought this was funny, the idea of staggering around the various Montessori-style play areas, screeching about tuition costs and passing out in the cozy nook, goat cheese crostini in hand. On a recent excursion to the Staten Island Ferry that I helped chaperone, I asked if there would be gin. Everyone always laughs. They laugh with what I see is relief, a sense of parenting-in-this-crazy-city comradery. 

I don't make booze joke anymore, for the obvious reasons, but there was a recent cocktail night that I decided against attending, and the emails lobbying back and forth about the (desperate) need for a drink, to be with grown-ups (because this is what grown-ups do, what grown-ups look forward to when escaping the jammy hands of our children for a night) made me feel very much alone for a moment - like flying without a net. It was fleeting, but it was there. 

I'm proud of myself that I've quit drinking, but at the same time, I know what normal drinkers think about AA goers like me. I want to say that I wasn't that bad, that you probably wouldn't even have noticed that I had a problem. I want to redeem myself in their imaginary eyes. As to why I don't drink, I want to be able to give the short answer, the one that will put people at ease and get myself off the hook, but I know that with most things in life, the important things at least, it's never that simple. 

History repeating

When I was in college, I would come home on weekends, drink with my parents until an argument of some kind started, then sit in my Dad's Lazyboy with an enormous vodka and cranberry and watch movies until four in the morning. This was back when there was a late late movie, and you could see films like "The Friends of Eddie Coyle," "Bad Ronald", and "Trilogy of Terror." Movies that would stay with me despite the alcohol and exhaustion. My Dad's business went bankrupt during that time, and we all took to self-medicating, and my Dad, with his weak stomach, would spend the end of the evening vomiting behind a large pine tree next to the pool. My mother drank champagne, several splits, and her slurring was legendary. I didn't touch alcohol until I was 19 years old, but I was quick to catch up, as the melancholy in our once warm, happy home had taken over as there was no more wood for the fire, the cars were re-possessed and my mother's desk became littered with unpaid bills. We were, all three of us, drinking ourselves down the drain.

I used to drive them home from restaurants. I wasn't the designated driver - I drank just as much as they did, but for some reason I would end up behind the wheel of my Dad's white Mercedes. As if they were trying to stick to some paradigm of parental responsibility, as if I, their daughter, couldn't possibly be as intoxicated as them. On one particular night, we endured a tense, gruesome meal that we couldn't afford, where my Father cried all during dinner that my life will amount to nothing because his business amounted to nothing, and with a degree in painting, how on earth would I be able to survive without his money? After time spent in the bar after our uneaten dinner, we ended up winding along the backroads of Pennsylvania horse county, going much too fast, the drinks my parents consumed converting their tears to hysterical laughter. They slid around the backseat (why bother with seat belts?), arms tangled with legs, and I remember being acutely aware as we sped through the cold, dark countryside that everything I knew, everything I loved and depended on was making its own quick departure, and it would remain this way for a very long time.