Why I Gave Up Drinking Wine

You'd think this was an easy answer to give, an easy blog to write--it's neither.  In fact I've known for a few weeks I'd one day write this blog, but honestly I thought it would be much later--much, much later--like years.  I had some words for the answer but not enough. At least I didn't think I had enough.  I didn't understand them all myself.  But then yesterday I got an email from a dear friend--darn these dear friends I'm so lucky to have!  The subject line said, "Do you ever wonder?"  and then this was all that was in the body

.whether you and Brene Brown were separated at birth?  Listening to imperfect parenting in the car :-)

Tara didn't know that I LOVE Brene Brown; she didn't know that my cousin Heather introduced her to me years ago with her Ted talk o vulnerability or that my therapist recently mandated (she says she strongly recommended, but I know the truth) that I read I Thought It Was Just Me; she didn't know that I had read and reread and will continue to reread The Gifts of Imperfection; and she didn't know I would take that as both an immense compliment and a life long challenge.  She probably did know that I would immediately read or listen to the book.  (She knows me pretty well.)  So last night I downloaded the audio book and began listening to it on my way to work out this morning.  It's a good thing I left early as I kept having to pull over to write something down she said.

Giving up wine has been a process these last few months.  If I'm honest it's been a process for a few years.  When my mother went to rehab the first time, my sister and I both gave up wine.  Wine was her drug of choice and we were scared enough to just stop.  Over time we both began drinking wine again, but every so often we'd stop for a few months just to make sure.  It's been awhile since I've done that.

It's been a long and emotional six months.  These past six months have been some of the most powerful in our family, and they have also been some of the most painful and frightening.  We've had moments where Chris and I looked at our children and thought, "How did we get so lucky?" and there have been moments when we have thought, "we are the biggest parental failures ever."  We both noticed we were drinking more than usual.  We talked about it; we cut back; we paid attention--at least I thought I did.  One Sunday evening we had two banquets.  Chris and Caroline went to one and the others and I went to the other.  I hadn't eaten much that day; I knew to be careful.  I had a vodka tonic and that was all I was going to have.  A friend went to the bar and brought me a glass of wine.  And then I had another.  I may have had a third, I don't know.  I do know I argued with the children on the way home, and I do know that I woke up the next morning full of shame.  I sent all the children and Chris an email that said I wasn't going to drink at all again for awhile.  I apologized for the night before, and I said I never wanted them to live the way I had growing up.  I drank nothing for two weeks.

After two weeks I began to have some drinks but not much.  It was easy to have just one beer or just one cocktail.  Then the night happened--the night that led to another blog Despite the pain, love wins.  That night I was working on graduation party decorations; I was watching TV; and I was drinking wine.  I was waiting up for the big kids to get home, and I kept drinking wine.  When Boss came in I knew he'd been drinking; he admitted it, handed me his phone and went to bed.  I went to bed too.  I didn't sleep much.

The next morning I went through his texts and one I found made my heart stop.  I broke out in a sweat; I sat in the floor and watched as scenes from my life flashed before my eyes.  I listened to long ago and numerous conversations I had with my brother and sister.  I began to shake as I read these words in a text between SK and Boss.  "She drank a lot tonight."  "I know I'm scared."  "Do you think we should tell Daddy?"  "I don't know; it was awful."  "Let's wait and see."  The texts continued the next morning, "Did you see the email she sent us?"  "Yeah, that's good."  Shame washed over me.

Later in the morning I was lecturing Boss.  "Don't you know we have alcoholism in the family?  Don't you know the earlier you start to drink the more likely it is you'll be one too?"  He said he did--And then I told him, "I can't do this again with another family member.  I can't go to another family fun camp at a rehab facility." And well you can see the blog from above what happened.

That afternoon I told SK I had seen the texts and that I was sorry.  I told her I would stop drinking forever that I didn't want them to feel like or to experience what I had for so many years.  She began to cry and told me that she was sorry I saw the texts because it was a one night thing.  They had never had those conversations before and she thought I was fine.  I remained haunted and terror-stricken.  I didn't want to destroy the relationship I have with any of my children.  The texts kept periodically appearing before my eyes and the echo of Boss' words, "I'm never having anything to do with this family." swirled within my soul.  I was busy with the week, but the words continued to pump through both my subconscious and my conscious.  The weekend came; we had SK's  graduation party; I drank two drinks and switched to water.  It was easy to do.

Two nights later I sat in the den and had a glass of wine, then a second, and then a third.  I stood up to go to bed and knocked over my favorite wine glass.  It broke, and I broke.  I realized that I like wine--a lot.  I realized that I could have one beer or one cocktail, but once I started drinking wine, I liked it too much.   The broken glass was the final straw.  I took it as a sign.  As I picked up the pieces, all the pieces from the previous six weeks fell into place and I thought, "How can I lecture my son when this is the way I behave?"   I didn't want to burden anyone with my realization, but I needed to tell someone; I needed accountability.  And so I told three people--three people who have walked with me and loved me through these last six months--Chris, Emily, and SK.  I asked them to support me and to hold me accountable.  I couldn't explain it exactly except to say I like wine too much.  I have to stop.  Please help me.

Listening to the audio book this morning it all made sense.  I carry so much shame from the secrets of my family of origin.   (I fully recognize that with this blog they aren't all secret anymore, but they were for many years.)  I carry so much grief and pain, so much regret.  Instantly the answer to why I gave up drinking wine became clear with these words from Brene Brown, "We have to be the adults we want our children to become."  I wasn't being that--

In one of her books I have read she writes recognizing and accepting our own vulnerabilities is key because giving voice to our greatest fears takes the power (shame) right out of them.  My two greatest fears are that I turn into my alcoholic mother, and that I lose the love and respect of my children.  I am claiming my power.  Brown says, “Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.” 
― Brené Brown, I Thought It Was Just Me: Women Reclaiming Power and Courage in a Culture of Shame

It's been just over three weeks, but I know I am capable of change.  I gave up drinking wine.

Why 8th Grade Trips?

See the smiles on their faces?  They love to dress alike!

When you are the mother of four, these are some of the questions you get asked.  "When did you take them out of cribs?"  Answer:  "When I was bringing another home."  "When did you stop nursing?"  Answer:  "When I found out I was pregnant again."  "When did you let them drink out of regular cups instead of sippy cups?"  Answer:  "When we were on a beach trip with another family and their son asks why my 6 year old daughter is still drinking out of a sippy cup--she never questioned.  It was just what we did--everyone had their own color sippy cup and we used them."  Having four children in 4 1/2 years brings its challenges; it brings its joys; it brings its blessings; and let's be truthful--it brings people's stares.

Who's to say even at the grandparents they couldn't be snatched?

We moved/move as a unit-we are the O'Doyles.  Sometimes we differentiate a little bit--sometimes we're "the parents," "the big kids," and "the babies."  When the children were small once a week we had "cook with Mommy night" and each child took their turn planning the menu and helping me cook.  It was a chance to have some 1:1 time with each one while the others played/wrestled/wreacked havoc in the other room. But mainly we were a unit--everyone to swimming, check; everyone to children's chapel and church, check, everyone to nap time, check, everyone to bed at 7:30, check.  That was until SK was in 4th grade and she questioned why she had to go to bed at the same time--so we let her read in her room until 8--seriously we're not unreasonable.  Although they now think it was slightly creepy, I even dressed them alike.  Now to be fair to me there was a reason--I figured if one of them got lost or snatched I didn't have to remember what they were wearing when I was trying to describe them to the police.  I just could hold up the other and say, "this is what he/she was wearing."  (I said I had a reason; I didn't say it wasn't slightly neurotic.  And besides, they were so darn cute in those matching outfits!)

Smocked storks

 And so began the 8th grade trips--a time to celebrate their individuality, their own personalities and interests.  It's also the year before ninth grade which if you have yet to experience it, buckle your seat belt.  That's the year we refer to as the soul-less lost year. The year they and all their peers are trying to figure out who they are, how they fit in, and while as parents there were moments when they still thought we knew something, when they still thought we were worth talking to, it was a year of emotional outbursts, slammed doors, and lots of "you don't understands."  (Save me dear Lord, we've got one more to go through!) But the year before--the year they were still pleasant, each child chose where he/she wanted to go and they went with the same gender parent on the eighth grade trip. 

This was a time when they got to have our sole attention.  When they got to set the agenda, choose the restaurants, the activities and the conversation.  SK chose Paris (thank goodness we lived in England) and together we raced around the Louvre in no particular order seeing the pictures she wanted to see.  We climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower at night and ate pastries for dinner.  Christopher and Chris went to Portland Oregon for the basketball tournament.  They watched U of L as well as every other game played that weekend.   They stood in an outrageously long line at the doughnut shop and rode bikes through the streets.  William chose Harry Potter world--it poured down rain, but he didn't care.  They rode the  same rides over and over, drank butterbeer and did it all again the next day. And Caroline chose the Cloister where we rode horses on the beach, drank mocktails, giggled over cute boys,
and sat in the jacuzzi until late into the night laughing and sharing stories.





Was it worth it?  Without a doubt.  The ninth grade year doesn't last forever (thanks be to God) and parental wisdom grows exponentially with each passing year of high school.  I think these trips helped.  I believe those trips set a foundation; they said, "You, you as ___________, not just you as one of  the O'Doyle's matters to me.  You matter and you're important.  I want to be a part of your life; I love you and I will support you through the good times and the bad."  I believe in part because of those trips we are the first people called when there is a fight with a best friend or a boyfriend.  We are the ones called when there is a grade to celebrate or to mourn, when someone has been drinking and is terrified, when they just need to hear our voice because we've been working or traveling too much. We are the ones called and told, "I've been in an accident.  It's bad and it was my fault." And we show up to hold him/her in our arms just thankful they're alive and able to tell us it was their fault. (Okay maybe we're not the first always called, but I like to delude myself that I am; I do, however, suspect we're definitely in the top five.)  I believe it's because of those trips, sometimes when our light goes off at night the door creeps open and someone climbs into bed because they just want to talk. And I use my imaginary toothpicks to hold my eyes open because I know these times will end, and they matter.

Why 8th grade trips?  Because they don't stay young forever, because they need to know that they are part of our family--a family that sticks together, that loves and laughs and plays and fights and forgives, but they are also individuals.  They are individuals we want to know; individuals we cherish; individuals we value and individuals we love.

The 8th grade trips are not a cure all--we still have slammed doors, rolled eyes, harsh words, but the 8th grade trips help to set a foundation that we are more than those incidents.  We are the O'Doyles.

And the World Didn't End

Today is the first day in weeks and I mean weeks--okay probably in two months--that I got out of bed before 5 am.  (Except for the night before graduation when I just didn't sleep at all.) I ALWAYS get up between 4 and 5.  I love the mornings.  I love how much I can get done before the rest of the family gets up.  I love the quiet and the stillness.  But I just couldn't get my body up before 6:30 and sometimes even closer to 7.  To be perfectly honest even getting up at the time was hard; my body hurt and felt fatigued all day.  Eve sleeping in, I would often take a quick nap in the afternoon.

A couple of weeks ago I sat in my therapist's office sobbing and telling her that I was scared to death I had clinical depression (having in master's in psychology combined with being a tad dramatic is not always a great combination).  I told her that I was crying easily, and I was so fatigued sometimes I felt like I couldn't move.  And then I confessed my biggest sin--I was sleeping in.  To her credit, she didn't burst out laughing; she didn't even crack a smile.  Instead she said, "Honey, you are burning the candle at both ends AND you have many things you are grieving over and dealing with at this time.  Of course you're tired and crying more." (Yes I really do pay her good money to state the obvious--it is totally worth it!)  Here's what I learned....

I didn't get three loads of laundry washed, dried and folded every morning and the world didn't end.  In fact, the children started wearing clothes they forgot they had because they had to go below the first level of clothes in their drawers.  I also learned they could actually fold clothes--getting it from the place they folded it up to the bedrooms has proven to be a bit more of a challenge, but we're working on it.

I didn't always have the candle lit so that the scent was throughout the house--sometimes it was just beginning to waft up the stairs, and the world didn't end.

I didn't exercise every single morning--while I gained 5 pounds, the world didn't end.

I didn't write at least one letter every day--I've missed that and have a list of people in my head I want to write--but the world didn't end.

I didn't have my 30 minutes of quiet time every morning--and the world didn't end.

While the house has stayed cleaned, it hasn't stayed as neat as I'd like it.  Guess what, the world didn't end.

 I still haven't put all the decorations away from the graduation party a week and a half ago.  Good thing it's been nice and we could eat outside instead of on the dining room table!




Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 says:

3 For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

² a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
³ a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
⁴ a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
⁵ a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
⁶ a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to throw away;
⁷ a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
⁸ a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.  (NRSV)

I have been in a different season.  Different seasons have different needs.  Different seasons require different things of us--body, mind, and soul.  Seasons are not judgments; they are not measuring sticks of success and failure.  They just are.  There are different seasons in our lives--times we have to care for ourselves and others in ways we are not used to or even comfortable doing; and the world won't end.

Despite the pain, love wins

He was grounded; he was mad.  He was grounded; I was mad.  And I was scared.  He had made a bad decision--it turned out fine, but my mind raced with the possibilities of how it could have turned out, well, not fine.  So while I was angry, I was also terrified.  The two of those combined MAY have caused me to over react just a tad.  I mean if you consider my saying, "You are grounded until you get out of high school (two years from now)" over reacting, than yeah I over reacted.  And he said, "I cannot stand this family.  I don't care if you don't pay for my college.  As soon as I'm finished high school I'm leaving home and having nothing to do with any of ya'll ever again."  My heart stopped--literally.

My heart stopped; I stopped breathing and it took every ounce of strength I had not to break into a thousand pieces.  But I did it.  I held it together even as I felt a part of my soul slipping away. Truth, I semi-held it together.  I stopped speaking because I knew if I said anything I would fall apart.  My deepest fear--a fear I didn't even know had this power over me--was not bubbling but rushing to the surface like an out of control mack truck.  So I said nothing hoping that not engaging would make it not true, would make it go away.  We got into the car and drove in silence.

Fifteen minutes later he said, "Mama you know I didn't mean those things I just said.  I was just angry--really angry."  My fear hadn't subsided but I managed to squeak out, "I hope that's true.  I love you."  When we got home I went to my room, buried my head in my pillow and sobbed.  I howled and prayed.  What was happening to me?  He's a 16 year old boy who was mad and said something in anger--why am I so affected?  And then it hit me--I've been through this before.  On some unconscious level this was part of what has motivated me to be the mother I am--to keep my children in relationship with each other and with us.  I knew everyone would leave home one day, but I wanted us to stay close, to continue to share our lives and not to have estrangement, not to have distance.  I have done this before and it hurt.  My little brother distanced himself from our family for almost 20 years...

My little brother, the prince as we lovingly call him--my little brother who I adore, who sent me a dozen yellow roses on my birthday all four years of college--for almost 20 years I barely saw him; I rarely spoke to him and it was a painful hole that even with the joy of my husband and children could never be filled.  I don't want to tell his story about why he distanced himself but I will say part of it was my mother's alcoholism and the impact that had on us all.  And it made me angry. Even though he repeatedly told me that I had done nothing he was just doing what he had to do, it hurt.  He told me that our relationship was collateral damage, but that didn't fill the hole in my heart.  I missed him.   I missed him being a part of my children's lives; I wanted them to know the incredible man I called the prince.  And this grounded boy, well his entire life his mannerisms, his personality, his caring sensitive spirit reminded me over and over of my brother and now he is saying he's leaving the family never to return.  It was like a ground hog day nightmare.  

I left my room and searched for my son.  And as tears streamed down my face I told him.  "I need you to know what I heard when you said those words even though I know you said you didn't mean them."  I told him the story, and I told him, "I don't think I can survive losing another person who is a part of my soul again.  I lost 20 years with your uncle.  I can't stand the thought of losing you.  That's what I heard and it hurt."  

Some may say I have now given him power.  Anytime he wants to hurt me, all he has to do is say those words again.  But I don't believe that.  Do I believe we'll never hurt each other again?  I wish that were true, but when we love we are vulnerable.  When we are vulnerable we intentionally and unintentionally hurt one another.  The words from The Rev. Donald Fishbourne's sermon at our wedding echo in my mind.  The reading was Colossians 3:5-17.  Verse 13 says, "Bear with each other and forgive each other..."  The Fish told Chris and me, "not if you hurt each other but when you hurt each other talk about it.  Make it right."  I believe as we are called to live that way in marriage we are also called to live that way with one another.  Marriage is a sacrament--an outward and visible sign of how we are to live.  The Book of Common Prayer says, "Make their life together a sign of Christ's love to this sinful and broken world, that unity may overcome estrangement, forgiveness heal guilt, and joy conquer despair." (page 429)  Chris and I have tried to live that way; how could I do anything but live that way with my son?

It's been two weeks and the pain has recessed.  The pain has recessed because it was seen and acknowledged.  The truth--telling the truth not hiding sets us free.  I still have four teenagers.  They will still get angry with me; I will still get angry with them.  We will say things we don't mean, but I pray that our communication will stay open, holy and truthful.  I pray we will continue to bear with one another and forgive one another.  And I believe love wins.