Sober? Check. Mom? Check. Single? Well...

The title of my blog has not been completely accurate for over a year now. I am still (gratefully) sober, still (delightedly) a mom. But I am (surprisingly!) no longer single.
Almost a year and a half ago I made a life-changing acquaintance with a remarkably special man. If I had a list of all the qualities I'd want in a man, he would generate a check mark after every single one. Intelligent, kind, patient, good sense of humor, bookworm. Check, check and check. It is my blessed good fortune that I make all the checks on his list, too.
After a series of brief conversations in public we progressed to exchanging emails, then graduated to Facebook chats. After a couple of cautious months we scheduled our first private face to face meeting at a quiet local restaurant.
We didn't follow the first-date rule of presenting carefully edited histories to each other. Instead, we poured our insides out, laying bare relationship histories, drinking and recovery stories, parenting joys and sorrows, what we loved (animals, books), and what we loathed (right-wing politics and all things Kardashian).
Our conversation extended from mid-afternoon coffee into dinner, concluding only when the restaurant closed at 8 p.m. We parted with a warm handshake and a promise to get together again in the near future.
I hurried to my car, shaking from head to foot - in part due to the sharp, frosty January air, but more because something had just happened to me that I hadn't experienced in a long, long time.
When I got home I stumbled through the kitchen door and froze in the middle of the floor, still shaking, ignoring my dogs' eager greeting. Out loud I repeated, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God." Inside me, a voice calmly repeated, "This is a man you could fall in love with."
I envisioned falling in love as a literal fall. I saw myself standing at the edge of a high bridge, looking down into dark, churning water. Was I willing to risk my safe, peaceful life for another plunge into emotional entanglement? The question answered itself almost as quickly as it was asked. Yes, I was willing to risk it. I was willing to dare to fall in love again.
And, in fact, I did - and he he with me.
Falling madly in love with the partner of your dreams doesn't equal happily ever after, as any grown-up knows. Our togetherness has consisted mostly of joy, laughter, understanding, passion, and the deep appreciation that comes with finding "the one" later in life, when you've learned what matters (honesty, respect) and what doesn't (dirty socks on the floor, hogging the bathroom). But there have been some rocky, tearful interludes, when our present lives collide with past hurts and expectations. What matters, though, isn't that we fight; what matters is we always make up, apologize, and work hard at resolving whatever issue is at hand.
I've had to do a lot of changing to keep this relationship alive; so has he. For my part, I've had to confront the ghosts of a past relationship, acknowledge that these ghosts existed, were haunting my new life, and could potentially destroy it. It was scary work that sent me to a therapist's office. After one excruciating argument, when I was beginning to doubt the relationship was salvageable, a close friend of mine gave me a much needed wake-up call.
I'd spilled every detail of my partner's and my most recent ugly fight. I'd been unable to see past his part in it, focusing only on my hurt. Now, I said, I could see with humbling clarity exactly where my old behaviors had exacerbated the fight.
My friend looked me in the eye and said calmly, "You have a choice. Do you want to continue with your old behaviors and lose the relationship, or do you want to change?"
I wanted to change. And change I have. So has he. Because we want to be together badly enough to work at it. We are old enough to understand the value of what we've found together. What we've found together is priceless.
We laugh hard, every single day. We hug. We kiss. We get each other coffee or an extra blanket. We say "please" and "thank you." We have what I like to call cultural exchanges: I have become a Detroit Tigers fan; he has developed a fondness for Cyndi Lauper's songs.
Most wonderfully, we allow for one another. If I come home from work mentally and emotionally fried, he is fine with me taking my dinner plate to the sofa and reading while I eat, my preferred method of unwinding. If he says he is feeling a tad cranky, I leave him to his laptop and keep conversation to a minimum. We can be completely, comfortably, utterly ourselves with one another That is priceless, miraculous, and irreplaceable. And we are, thankfully old enough and wise enough to appreciate that.
Sober? Yes. Mom? Yes, indeed. Single? Happily, blessedly, and surprisingly, the answer is, not any more.

Help! Facebook doesn't depress me!

I am an unapologetic fan of Facebook. I like knowing what my local and far away friends are up to. I enjoy seeing my younger friends post photos of their little ones. I appreciate the pet photos,  the status updates, and the majority of the comical or heart-tugging memes. It's just plain fun. And, like anything just plain fun that gets into the hands of a person with an addictive personality, I indulge in it far too often and for too large bites of time. But until I'm missing work or skipping meals in order to indulge my habit, I am going to assume I haven't crossed into the danger zone of Facebook addiction. Yet.

Facebook is a delightful sounding board for the terminally smart-alecky. I derive a great deal of pleasure out of posting humorously cranky mini-paragraphs about the relentlessly bone-chilling weather, or mock news stories ("Local beagle engages in unauthorized litter box feast; owner recoils in shock and horror"). 

I try to avoid inflicting my opinion on religious or political debates, although I will interject if I feel my comment is on target but not snarky. I am a liberal Democrat and a Christian/Buddhist hybrid, but many people I love and respect lean right and are solidly Christian. I have no desire to hurt anyone's feelings or insist that anyone see things my way (although who are we kidding, I'd love it if I could persuade them to).

I try not to post too much mushy love stuff about my significant other, in part because I do have some understanding of decorum, but also because I don't want to embarrass him. I don't want to embarrass myself, either. Love makes me gushy. And too much shared gush comes across as bragging. I don't want to brag. I have nothing to brag about. The fact that this intelligent, kind, funny, thoughtful, compassionate man came into my life is a cosmic gift, not any achievement of mine. And he is the most... Wait. I feel impending gush. Ahem. Let's move on.

I do not post where I am every time I sit down to lunch or walk in the park, as a lot of people do. If this sounds a tad snobby, let me tell you that one reason I don't is because all of my Facebook activity takes place under my own roof. I don't have a phone smart enough to deliver updates on my every move. And that's a good thing, as I doubt there's a person on this planet who gives a rat's hind end that I am picking up paper towels at ShopKo or scarfing down a fish plate at Big Boy.

According to someone's research - I have no idea whose - Facebook has become associated with incidents of depression in its regular users. Supposedly, reading about other people's family joys, business successes and exotic vacations can lead to envy, low self-esteem and bitterness on the part of the less fortunate Facebookites.

I recently read a story on Huffington Post about a woman who detached herself from social media and realized she is much happier for it. She no longer goes online via her cell phone when she can't sleep, scrolling through the posts of friends who are partying gleefully while she lies alone, pitifully alone, in her big lonely bed. She is getting over the compulsive urge to document her every move, and she is finding other ways to fill those chunks of time previously dominated by posting, tweeting, and Snapchatting. She reads books! She talks to people on the phone, or even face to face! She showers more than twice a month! All right, I made that last one up. The point is, she feels liberated. Not so liberated that she's abandoning her online life forever, but when she rejoins cyberland she'll be armed with a dose of perspective she didn't previously possess.

So I guess I've been doing Facebook all wrong. I don't feel depressed. I am not nauseated with envy. I don't wish I could have Mindy's or Bob's or Susan's or, well, anyone else's life besides my own. When I see photos of friends and relatives lounging on the beach in Hawaii or in their box seats at a Detroit Tigers game I don't think, "Dammit! That should be ME!" I simply note their enjoyment. Clearly, I am not reaping the full benefits of online life exposure. I am sadly lacking in sadness, anger, bitterness and resentment.

The credit for this goes, at least in part, to my recovery program. I have been told not to compare my insides with other people's outsides. Income, new cars, or multiple stamps on a passport do not equal peace of mind or satisfaction. Yes, I would love a new car, a trip to Jamaica, and a triple digit income. But the fact that I have none of those things doesn't eat at me. I am, for the most part, content. I am also sometimes cranky, ungrateful, and just plain miserable. Welcome to human-ness. 

Using Facebook as a barometer for one's personal happiness is a sketchy enterprise. Kind of like comparing your life with that of some happy sitcom family. I want to measure my happiness on my own scale. Bills paid? Check. Employed? Check. Sobriety, family, pets all in place? Check.

Now if you'll excuse me, I just thought of a hilarious status update I want to post. 

The "Shameless" life

So much for not getting hooked on any new T.V. shows.
I stumbled across "Shameless" on Showtime one night when I was too tired to read but not ready to go to bed. I'd read an Associated Press article about the series, and it didn't appeal to me. A dark comedy about a chronic alcoholic trying to raise five children after his wife runs off? No, thanks.
But I gave it five minutes, then ten, trying to sort out who was who in the chaotic, cluttered, somewhat grimy lives of the Gallagher family, headed by Frank Gallagher, played flawlessly by William H. Macy.
Frank Gallagher is an unrepentant addict, a scam artist, a man intelligent enough to be a captain of industry but flummoxed by an ego that insists the world owes him a living and an insatiable appetite for mind-altering chemicals of all kinds.
Older daughter Fiona is a typical oldest child, and a typical adult child of an alcoholic. At 21 she is preternaturally maternal, and ferociously protective of her five younger siblings. Her enormous, dark eyes burn with determination, but also reflect the soul of a girl worn out from bearing grown-up burdens. She's outspoken, street smart, and desperately in need of someone to lean on. But of course, when she does find that someone, a kindhearted car thief named Steve, she can't let herself enjoy it too much; she knows that good times are temporary, and the people you love will eventually drop you on your head.
The younger Gallaghers are intelligent, smart-ass, make-do kids. They stick up for one another and they stick together. And although they treat their father with cynical disregard (in one episode they all raised their hands immediately when Frank asked, "All right, how many of you have, at least once, wished you could see me dead?") they go to extraordinary lengths to protect him when he gets himself in too deep. This is partly because they need Frank around to serve as the ranking adult at parent-teacher conferences and when Social Services comes nosing around, but also because he's their dad. If you find that hard to understand, you must not know any families with active alcoholic in them.
One episode captured the pain of living with an alcoholic so accurately I thought I might have to quit watching the show altogether.
Frank comes to after nearly dying of alcohol poisoning and finds himself in the hospital, surrounded by doctors who are fascinated by his resilience. One of them offers Frank $3,000 if he'll participate in an experiment. The catch is, he has to refrain from drinking for three weeks - and wear an alcohol detection bracelet.
Being the kind of man who would eat glass for far less money than that, Frank agrees. He returns to his family a sober man. He cooks breakfast for everyone, he goes bowling with them, he listens when they talk. He's warm, he's attentive, he's involved. He's a dad.
The older kids watch all this with a jaundiced eye. They have scar tissue where their hearts used to be, courtesy of Frank's previous bouts of sobriety.
One of the older brothers gently warns his younger siblings of how this all will end. "It won't last, you know. Don't get used to it."
In an instant I was 15 years in the past, overhearing my daughter Jess telling her younger brother and sister not to get too excited about the trip their dad had promised to take them on next summer.
"He says stuff like that, but it never happens," she explained.
My husband wanted to be the good dad, the loving husband, the family man who worked 40 hours a week and took his family on fun summer vacations. But, like Frank Gallagher, his addictions drowned his best qualities and turned him into someone we wanted to love but had to back away from.
There's no despair quite like watching someone you love destroy themselves from the inside out. There isn't enough love in the world to change an alcoholic who doesn't want to be sober.
In the Gallagher household, sobriety soon changed Frank into a man with grandiose plans and more energy than common sense. When he launches a remodeling project, taking a sledgehammer to the kitchen wall, the kids know that it's time for sober Frank to go. They immobilize him and pour vodka down his throat.
In the final scene the family is watching T.V. together. Frank slumps in a chair, glowering, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. Fiona's boyfriend enters and says a cheery, "Hi, Frank!"
"Fuck off!" Frank growls. The kids grin. Life is back to normal for the Gallaghers. And that's a normal a lot more people than you'd expect are comfortable with.

Ask us why we love our dogs

So one day last week I asked my daughter Jessica if she would walk partway to meet me as I walked home from work, and if she would bring my dog, Indy, with her. This would give wild man Indy a nice walk, and spare tired me from having to walk him after walking to and from work that day.
When I stepped outside it was about 20 degrees colder than I expected. That, and looking forward to meeting up with Jess and Indy, added speed to my stride.
I saw them from a distance, Jess in a pink sweater, pink-cheeked, long hair floating on the wind. Indy was a fluffy gray cloud on springy legs, tugging at the leash, eager as always to take in the whole world simultaneously.
Crossing to their side of the street, I waved at Jess until she spotted me. As I reached the curb across the street from them I called "Indy!" He was busy watching the car coming up the street, which stopped at the corner, blocking our view of one another.
As I waited for the car to pull out I thought about how I'd been hoping that Indy would be excited to see me coming up the street. Now I thought, he's so wired about being out for a walk he'll barely notice me.
But as the car pulled away and I gave it one more try, calling "Indy!" I saw his head snap up and his attention focus on me as I crossed the street. As I approached I could hear him whining as he danced on his hind legs, trying to get to me.
Jess and I "aww"ed as Indy leaped up to nuzzle my face. I felt like a war hero returning to cheering crowds and a ticker tape parade. I felt like exactly what I was: the center of Indy's life, the center of his heart.
I'm always going to remember that moment when I hear anyone wonder aloud why some people love their dogs with such ardent devotion.
Not since my children were small have I been greeted with such unrestrained enthusiasm. Dogs not only let us love them as much as we want to, they thrive on it. The more time, patience, affection and care we offer them, the more we receive of their love, devotion and undiluted displays of joy at the very sight of us.
I hate taking Indy outside to pee when it's bitterly cold or pouring rain. He has a shrieking bark that could shatter glass, he's a pain in the ass to walk and he's so jealous of my cat Sadie that he comes running every time he hears me talking to her.
He also runs to the window to catch a last glimpse of me whenever I leave the house, glues himself to my side whenever I'm home, and presses his head into the crook of my neck whenever he sees me crying.
And my every homecoming is a joyous ticker tape parade.

Love, patience and shoes

My friend Jan came over for dinner on Friday. We had a good time talking about writing, our pasts, and what we hoped our futures would hold. She's moving to Lansing at the end of the month, and though I haven't known her long she's already become a close friend, and my "miss you" blues already already gearing up.
Jan is a favorite of Saira, the family beagle. Jan loves dogs, Saira loves a good belly rub. It's a match made in heaven.
After Jan left I turned on some bouncy jazz music and began washing dishes. The dogs relaxed in the living room, worn out from the excitement of company, begging for morsels and jockeying for attention.
As I wrapped up my kitchen chores, an odd sound caught my attention. My leftover mom radar tuned in to a sound that wasn't quite right. A sound of mischief. I walked into the living room and saw that Saira was energetically gnawing on a shoe. My shoe. Half of my best pair of shoes.
"What are you doing?" I cried. Saira reacted as any naughty child would: she ran from the crime scene, leaped onto the couch and tried to wipe the guilty expression from her face.
There was no saving the shoe. What was once the top of my shoe was now a scattering of black confetti littering my pale green rug.
If this had happened a year ago I would have been shouting at Saira, and she would have cringed and likely had an accident on the rug or sofa, further enflaming my temper. I would have seethed and cursed as I cleaned up the damage.
But this is now. I gave Saira a mild scolding, gathered up the sorry remains of my shoe, found its mate, and dumped both into the garbage. Instead of rage, this thought kicked in: I can have a ruined shoe and a terrified dog, or I can have a ruined shoe. Getting angry would not repair my shoe and would teach Saira nothing. Sometimes pets destroy things. They make no distinction between their ratty stuffed bear or your best article of clothing, and they aren't going to learn that distinction.
I have, by force, become a better person because of my dogs. We adopted Indy and Saira a year and a half ago from our local humane society. They were adult dogs; they came with personality quirks and behaviors we were unprepared to deal with. At times I thought we'd made a huge mistake. Two mistakes.
What it's been has been a powerful lesson for me about anger, ego and love. All my life I've had a quick temper. My husband and my children suffered for it. Now I was unleashing that temper on two more innocent bystanders. I was angry that they didn't "know any better." Meaning they weren't behaving as I thought they should.
My moment of clarity came on a sunny fall afternoon when Indy knocked me down. Absent of leash manners, Indy was a brakeless freight train on every outing, dragging me down sidewalks as I fought to control him. I was walking him less and less often, dreading the battle of wills that always ensued.
On that fall afternoon, Indy spied another dog on the other side of the street. He went berserk as usual, pulling at the leash, yelping his glass-shattering shriek of excitement. Tangled in the leash, struggling for dominance, I lost my footing and fell over.
I was mortified. I imagined people thinking, "Geeze, why doesn't she control her dog?" I got up, yanked Indy over to me and swatted him. And swatted him.
My daughter Melissa, who was walking Saira, begged me to calm down. "Please, Mom, you look like you're abusing him."
I paused then. Indy was staring up at me, frightened and puzzled. Clearly he wasn't learning a lesson on leash manners. He was learning that the person he was learning to love and trust couldn't be trusted not to hurt him.
Was this who I wanted to be? This furious woman whose pride mattered more than her dog? It was a painful moment, but sometimes pain is what it takes to drive home a message.
From that day on I made a conscious effort to rein in my temper and keep my ego in check. When either dog misbehaved I responding with firmness rather than fury. On a recent walk with Indy I stopped to chat with a couple who lives down the street. Indy waited patiently, even sat and let himself be patted on the head. My neighbors said they couldn't believe this was the same out of control dog they'd watched me struggle with last fall.
The lesson has carried over into my human relationships. Instead of battling with my kids over this or that, I ask myself, do I want to be hurtful Mom, sarcastic Mom, win-at-all-costs Mom? Usually I don't. Sometimes, though, I still do. Like my dogs, I'm a work in progress. And it's all a labor of love.