A very boring sober story

Celebrating 3 years sober + motherhood, all in one post. Plus: the body wash that smells like spiders.

Kind of fitting I went to see the sun rise this week at the end of my street.

This week brought with it two of my big annual milestones.

On Friday the 13^th, I celebrated 31 years as a mom. I guess “celebrated” is a strong word, as there was no cake or gifts involved for me. But I did make sure my oldest child — whose birth all those years ago was unexpectedly complicated and quickly taught me that that’s how parenting goes — felt celebrated. I sent him something from a clothing brand he’s been loving and fancy cupcakes and when they arrived at his Hoboken apartment, his girlfriend sent pics of them glowing with candles she lit on top.

The other milestone I waved to as I was walking by this week was my 1,095^th day without alcohol, which for those of you who are with me in the English Major Math boat, is three years. On the night of my son’s 28^th birthday, I put down the not-very-good glass of red wine I’d been drinking, and never picked it up again. And for some reason that I’ll never know, I decided not to pour my usual 5:00 glass of wine the next night and then just kept going. 

All of that sounds very glib, like stopping my very favorite activity in life was somehow easy — because it wasn’t. There were times it really sucked. And sometimes, it made me so angry when I’d see the likes of Stanley Tucci running around Italy on TV drinking copious amounts of wine with his fabulous meals. I’d wonder for the millionth time why I couldn’t just drink like a regular person. Why I’d have one drink and then need 10 more, because that’s the way I roll.

In the beginning, I could tell girlfriends were hesitant to order cocktails in front of me when we went out to dinner. I’d act like I wasn’t paying attention and could care less but when my club soda would arrive in an actual tall soda glass and theirs would come in delicate coupes with fancy dried slices of lime and rims coated in some exotic combination of flavors, I’d shoot death rays from my eyes at everyone at the restaurant.

It got to the point where I didn’t even want to go out anymore and so I kind of stopped for a long time. In theory, I would have just surrounded myself with other people who did not drink alcohol, but for some reason that hasn’t been that easy for me. But that’s another story (or maybe part of the same story, who knows?).

I like to tell the story of why I decided to stop drinking because it’s the story that I needed, so desperately, to hear during the many years I was struggling with whether or not I needed to stop. Every “quit lit” book I read started with a dramatic, rock-bottom moment (for some reason, waking up in a stranger’s bed in a hotel room is a popular one). Or even when I was scouring the internet for signs I needed to quit, I came across DUIs and family interventions and rehab. But there were never any stories about a mom drinking too much wine every night (night after night) in the safety of her home.

Of course, now I can see so many other signs that I liked drinking booze a little too much. Like, I thought it was weird and kind of lame as we got older and some of my fellow wine lovers started to slow down their intake when we went out. “When did she get so boring?” I’d think. I was always up for adventure and had some crazy stories to prove it, mostly enabled by decision-making impaired by 20 drinks.

But none of these things in my mind were reasons to quit drinking alcohol altogether. Things that made me think I needed to reign my alcohol consumption in. Make it less of a “habit.” I’d set up rules for myself like only two glasses of booze at a time, or no drinking at home or only on the weekends. Maybe stay away from the vodka. I even started rating my hangovers each morning in my journal.

So for a long time, I’d try to regulate my drinking. I’d stop for self-imposed periods of what then I called “sobriety.” A few days or weeks here and there. Once, I went 90 days, which was pretty impressive until I reminded myself that the goal had been 100 days but I just couldn’t get there. I heard my daughters laughing and opening a bottle of wine in my kitchen one night, and I gave in to that dumb voice in my head telling me that none of it mattered. “What’s one glass?” it asked as I walked into the kitchen and pulled a wineglass out of the cabinet.

It was just that voice that was screaming inside my head on my son’s 28^th birthday that I needed to once and for all close the door on. I really needed it to shut up and stop drowning out the other voice that was saying so clearly, “If not now, when?”

Getting sober had always kind of been on my lifetime to-do list. Like competing in a triathlon and having four kids. I was always going to get around to it. Someday. Despite all that quit lit sharing really dramatic stories about how other women found their way to sobriety, I loved hearing about what they found when they got there. Peace and serenity. Productivity. Authenticity. Relief.

I remember reading a passage from one, Laura McKowen’s We Are the Luckiest, about all the things she did in one day. She didn’t cure cancer, but she had a normal, productive day where she got a lot of things done. And to someone like me, who could barely shower to go get a bikini wax because of how terrible I felt from the bottle of wine I drank by myself the night before, that seemed miraculous. McKowen did not need to rest on the couch every 20 minutes and she wasn’t contemplating needing a “struggler” (for me, a bottle of dark beer), to help get her over the hump of midday.

That seemed magical.

On the night of my son’s 28^th birthday, I sat on my IKEA Ektorp after dinner drinking yucky wine and watching an NFL game. The height of the pandemic had come and gone and yet I was feeling like I was still mentally sheltering in place. I was having a hard time moving on because I didn’t really know what I wanted to move on to. The two older kids had returned to their lives and the other two would be following in due time. The third kid was preparing to move to another city and the youngest would be heading to college the following year, thus completing my tour of hardcore mom duty. After almost 30 years in service to my family, what was I supposed to do next? I think all the wine helped keep me in a warm little fuzzy cocoon where I didn’t have to think about any of it. I’d kick the can down the mental road and tell myself I’d start figuring it all out the next day.

On my son’s birthday, I sat on the couch and had like an internal Tom and Jerry cartoon going on inside my head, where the devil (that looked a lot like Jerry the mouse) was telling me (who weirdly looked like Tom the cat) that I deserved to relax and enjoy that glass of wine after all the work I’d done preparing the big birthday meal for my son. I had cooked a hearty Bolognese sauce for hours earlier in the day to accompany the fresh strands of thick pasta my daughter gently lowered into a pot of boiling water. We washed it all down with my favorite Italian red I’d buy from the local bottle shop and for dessert, I baked a chocolate layer cake that we generously covered with my daughter’s peanut butter buttercream frosting. On top, I’d sprinkled teeny-tiny M&Ms and honestly, despite the dry cake, the meal was a triumph.

“You’ll definitely need one more glass before bedtime,” that devil said, but he really had to raise his voice to be heard over the angel (also looking like Jerry) on my other mental shoulder. That voice was gently but firmly telling me that I should put the glass down and be done for the night. It asked if I could dig up the tiniest bit of willpower and put it back down on the little metal table in front of me and really look at it. The sides all smudgy with fingerprints and stained purple from the many times the glass had been tipped that night. The rim covered in imprints from my thirsty lips. The dark purple liquid sloshing inside.

I thought about how stuck I felt. And how this could be my son’s 28^th birthday, or 25^th birthday, or even his 31^st birthday. What was going to change? Was this how I was going to feel for the rest of my life. Buzzed and trapped?

“If not now, when?” that cute little angel yelled, and I really heard him. I put the glass that had been in midair back down on the little metal table, and internally closed the devil inside a box I keep in my mind. He’s in there, still shouting, and I still have to work hard at not listening to what he has to say, because it’s never good.

I like that these milestones come one after the other, these two births. That every year I am reminded of how my life has changed for the better because of both of these major life events. Becoming a mother to all four of my children forced me to confront things I didn’t like about myself so that I could be a better parent and role model for them. And giving up drinking has started the process of uncovering all the things I used wine to soften — complicated feelings and relationships — and get closer to being the person I really would like to be, for me.

Having a baby and getting sober are both really hard things to do. They each require a lot of work and come with lots of challenges. I have had moments of great success and also, miserable failure. The trick is understanding that it’s just a part of the process. To say “I’m sorry” or reach out to another sober friend and start from there. To know that it will always be worth it. To have that 31-year-old tell you he’s grateful for your constant love and support. Or your baby daughter remembering it was your soberversary and sending a confetti-laden celebratory text.

To have that feeling deep inside you that you are on the right path. You are moving in the right direction. Nothing is perfect. Life is still hard. And yet, it looks a lot more like you.

This week I walked the dog up to the boardwalk at the top of my street to watch the sun rise. I unclipped him from his leash and he ran around like a maniac while I looked out at the hazy band of orange stretching across the horizon. I glanced down to watch the dog digging furiously in the sand and when I looked back up, could see the top of the sun, a bright arc of glowing orange, peeking behind the waves. The radiant orb rose out of the water and I fluctuated between trying to get the dog to stop moving so I could take his picture and being mesmerized by what was happening right in front of me.

I know that the sun rises every day, whether or not I am there to document it with my iPhone. And yet, it’s good to be reminded of just how miraculous it is. This thing we take for granted, this miracle I can witness right at the end of my street. Like not drinking every day, a thing I don’t even think about much anymore. But when I stop to look at it, it’s still pretty hard to believe. How bright that sobriety feels inside me, like I swallowed that brilliant orb and can sometimes feel its light seeping out from within. That power shooting out from my fingertips.

sunday shares: read + watch + cook + buy

Smells like spiders. In the split second, before I saw that very big spider taking a shower with me in Maine a couple of weeks ago, I was enjoying the scent of the bodywash the Airbnb host provided for guests. I had eyed the oversized pump container I noticed at Wegman’s every week but had resisted buying something so big without getting to smell it first. And while the spider kind of ruined the full experience for me, my memory was that it was very pleasant. At any rate, they didn’t have this particular scent in stock at my Wegman’s so I ordered it from Amazon (plus a spare to give to my sister), and it incentivized showering a few days ago. I pumped a big puddle into my hand and when the moment of truth arrived, felt triggered by the whole spider thing. Like, it will forever be associated with the incident. Maybe it smells good? I’m not sure. Right now, it just smells like spiders.

Pickles, everywhere. I bought Trader Joe’s dill pickle mustard ages ago and haven’t been able to find it in my house. Then this week, it was right on a shelf on the door packed in tight with the 700 other condiments I have to have. Who put it there? Who’s playing games? Also, who knew pickle-y mustard could be so yummy?

I made a secret virtual clubhouse for us to chitchat on Substack about the important things in life, like whether shorts or online dating apps are a thing. Come join the conversation.

Asking for a friend. The other day I thought I’d try something new and have a conversation with all of you, because who better to ask some of my burning questions than all my internet friends? Sometimes, you need answers from actual people and not be presented with a lot of headlines on the internet that some SEO expert wants you to click on. This week’s question was: Are dating apps still a thing for midlifers? Please, come chime in and tell me what to do (here’s how to sign up). I would also love to know what some of your questions are, so please drop me a line and maybe we’ll throw it out to the group in an upcoming post and get everyone’s hot take.

See you next week.

xoAmy