Drunk Mom Read Online Free Page A

failing.
    When I found out I was pregnant I knew right away that I wanted to have this child. I didn’t tell my boyfriend for a while because the child wasn’t planned, and I felt guilt over that as well. I had the guilt over trapping him—I didn’t plan to trap him, but my body had other plans.
    My boyfriend was a fulfilled man, a successful man, a man who was quite vocal about not wanting children, a man who enjoyed going out with his friends and having a fabulous life of semi-bachelordom.
    When I finally told him about the pregnancy (middle of the night, my eyes suddenly springing open out of fear, words spilling out: If you don’t want it, I’ll be fine on my own), he was happy and scared. Mostly happy.
    I was grateful and overwhelmed that he wanted to have a family with me. Me with my imperfections, my depressions, and even me with my then-dormant addiction hanging over us like an ever-present shadow.
    I found his love and joy generous and I told myself to not screw it up.
    I wanted to be what he wanted me to be—a good mom, a worthy partner, a perfect ruler for the country that he had accidentally given me.
    And every time I’d fail (the baby, him, me, our royal family), I’d feel remorse so great that it weighed me down like a crown made out of lead. The remorse crushed any expectations that he or I would have had about my ability to rule properly.
    Metaphors aside, all he wanted and all I wanted for me was to just be normal, to just be a healthy, fulfilled woman who cares for her child. All I had to do was be a mother to a little baby. That is all. Just a mother.
    Easing into the expectation.
    Easing into motherhood.

BEDTIME
    I t is now July, a month after my son was born. I’m having drinks with a new friend who wants to help me out with my artistic project.
    Nice guy.
    I used to be an alcoholic, I tell him, when I order another round for us, but I’m not now. This is my day off, that’s all. I never get days off now. The baby. It’s a lot of work, as they say.
    It is, he agrees.
    But I don’t really drink, I say. Not anymore—much. Not much at all. I drink just like anybody else. Not much at all.
    He nods, Sure.
    Because it’s not
that much
. It’s not that big of a deal, really. Can I even call this a relapse? A drinking problem? Please. Do I sit behind a Dumpster with a paper bag? No. I do not sit with a paper bag behind a Dumpster. Do I fall down, break legs? No, I do not fall down.
    I don’t fall asleep on park benches, don’t leave the stroller in stores with Frankie forgotten in it. I don’t shout and throw purses at my boyfriend in a drunken rage. I’m nice. I wash. I wash Frankie. I don’t forget about his formula if I have a little too much. But I almost never do have a little too much.
    But if I have a little too much, I’m responsible. I drink after he goes to sleep. I don’t forget to check on him before I do. I check on my boyfriend asleep. Don’t forget to fold our family’s laundry. I manage. Everything is manageable. And it’s not really a relapse; it’s nothing. It’s just like anybody else.
    When Frankie was born I was completely sober. I drank alcohol twice when I was pregnant but it was nothing, nothing that took a hold of me; I was responsible. And anyway, I felt too sick to drink.
    Frankie was born to a sober mother.
    And after Frankie was born some friends came over. There was champagne. We celebrated. Just like anybody else would.
    Then there was another big party, to welcome Frankie to the world. So many nice, friendly people showed up. They brought presents, stiff paper bags filled with bottles too. We took the bottles out of the bags, naturally. As they appreciated the newborn, we read the labels on the bottles while holding them by their necks, tilting them in another kind of appreciation.
    They drank. I drank, they drank, we drank, Frankie slept in his bassinet.
    And after that, there were still people coming by with presents, a procession of people, Scotch