I try to keep my blogs positive for the most part. I don’t believe in airing dirty laundry, nor do I wish to spread unhappiness. Because of these, I attempt to keep my posts lighthearted and happy. Does that mean I don’t suffer just as much as the next person? Does it mean that I don’t have down days? Does it mean I’m immune to negativity. While I’d like to claim these things, that’s just not true. But, I don’t want to bring you down with my problems. After all – you’ve got your own to deal with. You don’t need mine, too, right? So, I try to fill your world with positivity and joy, if even for a moment.
Today, however, I’m going to give you a dose of my reality.
My children left me. Both of them abandoned me when they turned 16. They each decided to live with their father and they haven’t looked back. They don’t want to see me; they don’t want to talk to me. Why did they leave me? Because I was at a point in my life that I had to move. They didn’t like that and they now hate me for it. Huh. I remember moving numerous times with my family when I was a child. I never hated or disowned my parents for it, but whatever.
On most days, I deny the fact that I am a mother. If I have no children, that means I’m not a mother, right? It saddens me, some days more than others. But, it is what it is. There’s no point in crying over spilled milk, right?
Once I gave in to the fact that I no longer have children, it was actually very freeing. In my case, more so than in most. I made a deal with my children when they were younger. I told them that if they didn’t drink alcohol or use drugs, I wouldn’t either (I’ve never done drugs, nor had I ever been drunk). I made the deal to protect them from themselves. They have alcoholism on both sides of their family tree (one side is just dripping with it,) and I thought if I could keep them from drinking long enough that they were able to make good decisions about it, I might be able to help them avoid it.
However, now that I no longer have children, that deal no longer exists. I can drink all I want. My guy sees this as a very good thing, since he’s a licensed mixologist. He’s been itching to fix me a drink. He’s been very curious what I would be like with a few drinks in me. Heck, I have been too. I have had alcohol in my life, but it always just made me sleepy (“Push through it!” my baby sister would urge.) Since making the realization that I can drink, I have done some sampling.
I have a new favorite word. It’s a very fun word. Say it with me. “RumChata!” The night I finally decided to partake, my sister in law had brought over some RumChata. I’d seen it before, and I’d been curious about it. Ever the bartender, my guy went into the kitchen and skillfully poured me a tiny cupful with two clunks of ice.
Now, he’s obviously not opposed to drinking. Anytime he gets a drink which is new to me, I smell it and always have the same reaction. My nose crinkles up, and the smell of booze turns me off. RumChata isn’t like that. Sure, the booze taste is there, but it’s not the predominate flavor. Actually, it kind of works with the other flavors. I like RumChata!
I only had two servings of it (I really need to learn the terminology!) It was funny – I had the same reaction to each of the drinks at right about the same point. A short while after I had had a few sips, all of a sudden, I wanted to crawl into my guy’s lap and cuddle with him (something I’ve never done). He found it amusing and he played off it. And then, when we got home, I fell asleep really quickly. “Push through it!” didn’t happen.
And then St. Patty’s Day came around. I want to sample more! We went to the local booze shop and bought me a mini bottle of… that Irish drink… Baileys? I think? Anyway – it was good, too. (Apparently, I like the creamy stuff.) And the same thing happened – an overwhelming urge to curl up in his lap followed by instant sleep.
Maybe at some point I’ll get the hang of this drinking thing. Or not. The way it is now, I’m enjoying it. The cozy, cuddling feeling followed by instant sleep. How is that a bad thing?
I’m trying to figure out what this all means. Is this me making the most of a situation which no mother would ever want? Or is this me, finally allowing myself freedoms which I’ve never experienced before? Am I forcing myself to see the world through my rose-colored glasses so I don’t have to look at it through a microscope and really see my woes, or am I just enjoying a part of life which normal people enjoy?
I think I’m going to stop inspecting it and just go with it. Looking at it hurts too badly, so I’m just going to embrace my pink-tinted shades and enjoy as much of life as I can.
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