I don’t have children yet. I have dogs. So for my first Writers Workshop c/o Mama Kat, (via ComaGirl) I am responding to the prompt:

Dear Mommy and/or Daddy…(write a letter to yourself from one of your children)

The following is a letter written to me by new puppy, Lucy.

—-

Dear Mommy,

I understand we are just getting to know one another, but I would like to point out a few things. Please read carefully:

I appreciate all of your housebreaking efforts and peeing outdoors is cool, but I much prefer to poop on your floors. You could stop wasting your time saying “potty outside” because all I hear is “blah, blah, blah. hard wood floors.”

It seems that you and other dog like to go for long walks. That’s nice, but I think you can continue to carry me like the princess that I am. It’s really the least you can do considering how many “Awwws” I am contributing to your days.

Speaking of other dog…biting his tail is a whole lot of fun. Would it kill you to slather it in peanut butter? It would make the whole experience that much more enjoyable.

Regarding the tall bald man: is he deaf? Because you seem to be the only one that hears my cries in the morning. You should really have his hearing checked, at least for the sake of those bags under your eyes.

Whew, I am glad I got all of that out. Now that you’re better informed as to how I prefer things to go down, the rest of this puppy period should go well.

Love,

Lucy (aka Lazy Lu)

P.S. My purple polka dot leash and collar are awesome. You have great style and I want to thank you in advance for never putting me in a tutu or a t-shirt featuring a (not so) clever saying that prompts people to laugh at me.

Each day things get worse, not better. Like with death they say time heals you…but with this, the longer I go without being pregnant, the worse it gets. I cry at the sight of babies, baby things, pregnant women. I know I will have a baby one day, but that doesn’t help my philosophy of getting through today. It hurts today, I don’t care about tomorrow or 10 months from now.

I’ve been crying every night since Thursday. I comforted myself by saying it was only at night, I just need to keep busy with work, dinner and reading during the day/evening. Well I started crying before and my heart was pounding so much I was afraid of a panic attack. So I laid down and fell asleep.

I’m waking up early, exercising, eating right, keeping busy with work, trying to stay positive. Nothing is helping to ease the sadness.

I’ve run out of tools in the toolbox.

—

I need to get back here.

Number of desserts I ate: 5

Number of times I feigned a smile: 10+

Number of tylenol taken: 8

Number of panic attacks I had: 2

Number of full balanced meals consumed: 1

Number of times I wanted a drink: countless

i could use that right now. but i know someone really special who does not.

Yesterday was just one of my strange sober experiences. Now that summer is unofficially here, I am sure to have many more. It’s funny that most people will just think it’s because I’m pregnant. They know nothing of what it took to get to where I am, and little of my drinking demons. That’s okay. Giving up the drink for pregnancy and motherhood sounds far more glamourous than being an alcoholic. Although, hiding it isn’t something I plan on. Clearly.

I told someone the other day that I feel like I am cheating sobriety by being pregnant. When the little lemon is born I will have one year under my belt, but just 3 of those months will have been conscious efforts. Then comes several (fingers crossed) months of breastfeeding and before I know it, it will be well over 18 months since I had my last drink.

Well, nothing too exciting here…just typing out some thoughts to quiet my mind before bed. Have I mentioned how crazy tired I have been? Goodnight.

Today sucked. My body is (for lack of a better term) completely spazzing out. Completely. From my brain down to my crampy midsection and aching lower back. I made plans with a friend to meet at the coffee shop because Jim was going to be out this evening and I knew it would be very, very hard to avoid cracking open one of his beers. Or, heading to a local bar and ordering a bottle of wine. She’s not here yet. She probably won’t show. Jim won’t be home for at least two hours. There’s still time. Tears are welling up in my already tear-tired eyes. And if it weren’t for the group of PTA moms squawking in the corner, I’d probably let them flow. Some days I simply hate being a woman and hormonal. It’s the current cause of my physical and emotional pain and some days I can’t get to my rubies and love songs place and it all hurts too, too much.

Today Jim and I were at dinner. He had a beer and I thought to myself “Man, I want a beer.” The next thought? “Well you can’t have one. Tough. Deal with it.” And I did. It was that simple. No crabbiness. No anger. No why me? (in a whiney voice)

I haven’t felt the way that I obviously felt while writing that passage in a long time…or at least it feels like along time. In reality, it’s been just 8 weeks? Crazy. How much better will I feel in another 8 weeks? I can’t even begin to imagine.

If my life and sobriety were like one of those fancy charts that fancy people use, it would feature a line trending UP.

121 beautiful days. Thank you. Thank me.

What did you like most about drinking?

The thing I loved, loved, loved about drinking was the way I felt after a couple of glasses of wine. All the edges were smoothed out, I liked everyone around me just that much more, things seemed more doable. Drinking felt like an audible sigh. If I could’ve figured out a way to capture just that feeling every night, I would never have quit. I just couldn’t walk that line between slightly buzzed and asleep for more than thirty minutes. There was also the slight problem that I never felt like I’d had enough. If buzzed was good, drunk would be better and it never was.

_______________________________

Yesterday while G-chatting with my BFF (i always feel like she thinks i am slightly overreacting with this whole drinking thing), she helped me get through a rough day simply by listening. I really, really wanted a drink. I was convinced that one of my burps tasted like a gin & tonic – that’s how bad it was. I explained to her that having one day where I allowed myself to drink would never, ever work. She responded by saying that I was able to do it before my wedding; a time when I was conscious about my weight, skin, overall appearance. I had to explain that yes, I limited the amount of days in a week that I drank (down from 6-7 to about 2-3), but never how much I drank once I started. I went on to say that in my belief, an alcoholic (or problem drinker, to put it nicely) isn’t defined by how often they drink, but by what happens to them after the first…or say, the third. A ‘normal’ drinker will stop and say “Whoa, I have had a little too much to drink. I better stop.” A problem drinker keeps on drinking until (in my case) they go to blackout—->pass out phase.

I want that “Whoa” Factor so badly that I can taste it. Or, burp it. I don’t have it, and I know that I probably never will.

Fast forward to dinner with said BFF and this fine young lady: They both had one drink each. I was jealous and awkward at first, especially staring at the extensive craft beer list on the chalkboard in front of me, but at the end of the night I realized: one would have never been enough for me. I would have been chuggin’ long after their brains told them to “whoa” the hell down. And that my friends, is the difference.

Except I’m not. I am 27 years old, lying in the backyard of the house that I own with my husband. His band’s music is playing on my laptop. And it’s the April sun that sunning my 45 SPF covered face. My body, no longer rail thin, has a few great curves and a few not so great ones.

I’ve been.done.lived. a shit-ton of shitty things in the past 15 years…but one thing remains: the sheer joy and excitement I feel as the weather starts to heat up. You see, back then none of this anticipation had a damn thing to do with alcohol, drinking or the like. Sure it probably had something to do with a few pimply boys, platform sandals, and sneaking out of my parents’ house just to wander the streets until dawn, but it had nothing to do with getting drunk.

I open my eyes and stare at the sun (still a risk taker at heart). I really could use a cool new pair of platform sandals.