I’d invited everyone I knew to my son’s fourth birthday party: our parents, brothers, sisters, neighbors, work friends, Facebook friends, assorted acquaintances, countless cousins and, most importantly, all of my drinking buddies. I’d gone all-out and rented one of those bounce castles that someone called an “inflatable babysitter.” Half of the back yard was taken up by the thing. While my wife had busied herself with all of the actual details of the birthday itself (you know: the cake, gift bags and food), I was worried about what kind of beer I should stock up on. I even solicited requests from people ahead of time. Most everyone gave me puzzled looks and crinkled brows. I asked my wife if we should have some wine on hand. She reminded me that it was a four-year-old’s birthday party. I nodded and mentally noted that I’d probably need to get a bottle or two of chardonnay then. I packed an entire cooler full of cans and bottles of beer and lovingly covered it with ice. My role in the party planning was complete.
At some point during that same party, I found myself inside that castle, bouncing little kids in every direction as beer raced through my bloodstream. Some of the kids tumbled out, desperate to escape. I didn’t care—I’d reached my normal cruising altitude. I’d put down four or five beers before noon. (It was a party, so public morning drinking was okay, I told myself.) As I bounced, I dimly realized I’d put myself on display for everyone to see: a thirtysomething dad who was drunkenly jumping around inside a red-yellow-blue castle. I clambered out and quickly offered some of the parents around me something to drink. If they drank, it’d make me feel better. No thanks, most of them insisted. The water is fine. I shrugged and grabbed another cold one, downing it.
That was pretty much my life as a parent in a snapshot. At home, I made sure alcohol was all around me so I could easily taproot into it. It was my house, I could do whatever the hell I wanted. But when you have kids, you’re automatically invited to other people’s houses for any number of playdates and parties. I wasn’t the popular one—my kids were. It’s kind of like when you’re young and other kids come over, just to play with your cool toys and computer games—not necessarily you. So, when the parental obligations started mounting, I was forced to start making temporary connections with people I barely knew—or even wanted to. At these houses, I had to strategize more. I burned brainpower rationalizing whose parties I could attend and whose parties I couldn’t.
When you’re as deep in the bottle as I was, you’d make sure you’re surrounded by other parents who were prone to drinking. I’d feel myself relaxing a bit. I could bring a six-pack of beer and no one would bat an eyelash. Getting invited to a kid’s birthday party because they’re simply friends with your kid at daycare? That’s tricky business. I had to mentally gear myself up for the two-hour arc of games, birthday singing and party favors by getting Just Drunk Enough that I could survive. Not enough drinks and I’d be feeling time crawl by the second; one drink too many and I’d be excitedly talking about Fringe with a slight slur.
My drinking problem wasn’t a secret. It was usually on full display—either in overly-excited conversations or with a hangover burning in my eyes. I wasn’t doing the math on the fact that we weren’t getting invitations back to visit. One time had been enough. When I finally (and publicly) got sober, I felt the tectonic plates shifting under my feet. Everything about my life was moving around: people’s trust, concern and wonder. And that went for my kids’ lives, too. After about a year, we started getting invitations back to parties, get-togethers and barbecues. And I started accepting the invites—usually with a wince—as I clicked the “Going” button on Facebook.
When you first get sober, you’re sort of prepared to feel different. What no one tells you is that other people are prepared to feel different about you. And there’s no greater terror for a recovering alcoholic parent like me than going back to other parents’ houses where you’d previously made a spectacle. It was like returning to the scene of your crime, just to admire the handiwork.
I’d pull up to other families’ houses with a genuine sense of dread—the sort reserved for, say, a funeral or an unscheduled “We need to talk” meeting with your boss. I’m sure a lot of it was my own imagination, but I genuinely thought something flashed in other parents’ eyes when they first saw me. Maybe it was the “ocular patdown” from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, sizing me up for risks and threats. After all, I was the guy who’d drunkenly throw good dishes and silverware in the trash can after eating birthday cake. (I probably still need to do an amends for that one.) And the worst part is that in early recovery, you’re feeling everything. You’re an open, salted wound. Every glance, comment and conversation feels coded and secretly about you. For me, there was an unspoken “knowing” with other parents about my admitted alcoholism. They knew that I knew that they knew.
I’m invited to a lot more parties, events and gatherings now. I’m suddenly a known quantity. I don’t know if putting myself out there as a recovering alcoholic automatically makes me trustworthy (doubtful), but it certainly makes me more tolerable to be around. I’m not hijacking conversations or checking my phone every few minutes, wondering when and how I can get to my next drink. I also discover that there aren’t a lot of dads passing out beers at eleven o’clock in the morning. Not the dads who matter, anyway. At my worst, I assumed everyone else was drinking like I was, or acknowledged it as normal behavior. No one did. Back then, I wasn’t a responsible parent—I was the faded facsimile of a father, copied over and over again. Now, when I show up somewhere, I’m actually there.
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