“Hey Mumma! How come Daddy has a beer bottle, but you don’t?” I looked into my seven-year-old son’s gigantic, blue eyes. He was sincerely curious. We were hosting a party in our backyard. I surveyed the scene while I gripped a lime seltzer in my hand. Most of our guests were lazily swinging golden beer bottles that reflected the late summer sun. They were laughing and chatting it up in small groups. All the kids were running around, squealing that high-pitched squeal that only dogs can hear. All seemed right in the world. I looked back down at my boy and answered, “Because Mumma doesn’t drink, little love.”
If only that were true…
Just five minutes earlier, “Mumma” was in the bathroom, downing two vodka mini bottles to take the edge off. They were hidden strategically in the travel case tucked way back in the bathroom sink cupboard behind the tampons. Because who the hell would think to look behind the tampons (brilliant, right?) Vodka makes her interesting. Vodka makes her worthy. Vodka is lying.
F*** it. Mumma is lying. I am lying. I’ve been drinking on and off in secret for over a year. I’ve been lying to my amazing husband, who thinks I’ve been sober this entire pandemic. He’s cheered me on, told me I’m doing great in the wake of personal issues with my parents, issues that would normally send me on a bender (spoiler alert: They did). I smile weakly when he praises me. And that sends me right back into the bathroom to lie some more in the form of one or two more tiny bottles.
To make matters worse, I just lied to my first-born son. I guess I told him what I wished for. Perhaps there’s some solace in knowing that. But not enough. Not nearly enough. The lies need to stop…
So I’m here. It’s my fifth (sixth?) attempt at getting sober. I’ve tried AA, tried a psychic (yep!), tried paid-for online support groups, sheer will, quit lit, you name it. But I’m back at the beginning. My hope is this blog will hold me accountable. I will conjure up that saying (and I paraphrase) “It’s not failing if you get up and try again.” So here I am not failing, I guess. I’m going to “try try again“. Because some day, I want to say to my boy, with confidence and pride — and some final f’n honesty —
“Mumma doesn’t drink.”