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.

Farewell, June-tober

And so we bid farewell to June-tober. I know we've had damp, dreary Junes in other years, but I've blanked them out of my mind, which makes this the dampest, dreariest June in my memory.
But give us Yoopers credit: When the calendar says summer, we live summer. Children gallop up and down soccer fields in sweatshirts and mud-caked shoes. Dogs are walked under sullen gray skies, their coats soggy, their owners shivering. Families pile into RVs and pour into campgrounds, parents sticking close to the fire, kids running themselves as sweaty as they'd be if the sun were blazing down. We line up at Frosty Treats, cold-reddened hands wrapped around ice cream cones or waxy milkshake cups. It's the principle of the thing.
That's the true U.P. spirit. But believe me, under that spirit lurked one hell of a lot of disgruntled Yoopers yearning for sunshine.
Resentment is a luxury alcoholics cannot afford. That's a little something I was taught - repeatedly - throughout my 28 years in recovery. Note that I said I learned it; I didn't say I always practice it.
By about mid June-tober my Yooper stoicism had given way to a festering, unreasonable, childish resentment. By God, I waited all freaking winter for June's arrival. I wanted my sunshine! I wanted my beach days! I wanted to pull on a pair of shorts, peel my humidity-curled hair off the back of my damp neck and sip an ice cube-filled glass of lemonade.
The unrelenting 50-something degree days began to feel like a personal insult. I developed an irrational hatred of all meteorologists. I checked The Weather Channel online and on TV several times each day, like a Wall Street trader checking the Dow Jones index.
I'm usually big on gratitude. I tried correcting my sour attitude with thoughts of the violent weather and wildfires tormenting much of the rest of the U.S. At least we're safe, I reminded myself. Cold, wet and deprived of sunshine, but safe. But as you may recall, I did describe this as an unreasonable, childish resentment. Reality tends not to be the cure for the irrational.
What finally cured me was the inevitable: The sun came out and the temperature rose. I pulled on my bathing suit and went to the beach with a couple of my friends. The sand was a patchwork of bright beach towels. Children ran into the water and quickly out again, shrieking at the cold. Adults either basked in the long-awaited warmth or waded into the water themselves for a quick dip.
All this joy, and the temperature never broke 80. The wind was, in fact, a tad cool. When goosebumps rose on my arms I pulled on a T-shirt, then tipped my face upward - grateful for the sunshine and able, finally, to make the best of a less than perfect summer day.