Alcohol and the Art of Parenting

“I’m not dirty!!!  God mom, it’s a tan!!!!”

Sure kid.  Sure.

As I’m tying her shoe which she propped on my leg, “I may or may not have stepped in dog crap this morning.”

Nice kid, nice.

I find that these little announcements are better when accompanied by a mimosa.  Then again I think everything is better when accompanied by a mimosa.  MOTHERHOOD is better when accompanied by a mimosa.  It’s just a fact that I have more patience and kindness when I have, er, taken the edge off.  My daughter has reached an age when several new developments in her personality are clashing with several old aspects of my own personality.  First, there is ‘the tone’.  You know the one of which I speak.  We used it when we were, maybe twelve.  “Whaaaat?  God!!!!”  followed by huge, dramatic sigh to which I reply, “Stop with ‘the tone’.  It makes a little switch go off in my head that makes me want to kill you instantly.”  Which she follows with, “Whaaaat?  Whaaaat tone?  God!!!”  There it goes, the switch, CLICK!  It is an audible CLICK. I can actually hear it happen.  This is when it really helps to have a drink in hand.  You know, so I don’t lash out that hand and slap the child closest to me.  Don’t want to spill that mimosa!

My father was better with a drink in hand, too.  It upped the patience level from “I’m going to kill you!” to “If you stay over there and shut the hell up we will get along just fine.”  This rapidly diminished after drink five or so when it would plummet to level “If you use that tone with me just one more goddamned time I am going to put your head through that wall over there, GOT IT?”

Drinking has been woven into the fabric of my entire life.  It was a major factor in my father’s parenting style.  When I was sixteen my dad was grilling steaks on the back porch, beer in hand when I pulled in with my Chevy Citation and informed him that it was overheating.  Again.  He handed me the beer and instructed, “See, you pour a little on, then you take a sip.  Pour, sip, got it?  If you screw it up the steaks are gonna burn so don’t screw it up.”  Got it.  Pour, sip.  Pour, sip.  Sip.  Sip. Pour, sip.  Sip, sip.  Pour, sip.  Wait, was it sip, sip, sip, pour?  Or pour, pour, pour, sip?  Jesus.  Grilling was not as easy as it looked.  Sip.  Sip.  Pour.  Here comes dad.
 “OK, go take it for a spin.  I fixed it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re not drunk.  Jesus Christ.  You’ve been here for five minutes.  Jesus.  You drank a half a beer.  Go try the car out.”
“Dad, I mean it.  I can’t.  I feel drunk.”
“GODDAMN IT.  GET IN THE CAR!!!!!”
Fuck.  Fine.  I will.  I finally get in the car and put the keys in the ignition.  He is standing in front of the car, beer in hand, expectant.  I start the car and immediately back up.  Quickly.  Right into my mother’s Subaru.  Told him I was drunk.  Asshole.
“WHAT THE FUCK??????????!!!!!!!!!!  WHAT THE FUCK???????!!!!!!!!  JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Seeing him all crazy like that, spilling his beer, jumping up and down, I panic.  I throw the car in first and peel out through the yard, then through the neighbors’s yard, ripping up both in my drunken panic to escape.  I drove down the street to the house where I babysat two small children on the weekends.  The father was in the driveway working on his car.  I pulled in, all freaked out, breathing hard.
“Dude, can I hang out for a minute?  If I go home my dad is going to kill me.  I gotta wait about 30 minutes so he can get back to “Grilling Happy Drunk”.

As I write this we are on vacation at the beach.  The beach is one of those places you can be buzzed at eleven in the morning and everyone just high fives you.  You can’t get away with that shit at home in real life.  Thank God we are at the beach though because I swear to freaking God I just heard, “Mom.  MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!  God!!!  MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.  WhatEVER!!!!!”  Thank God for that mimosa in my hand.  Thank God.