Page 12 of The Write Choice

“Christine. NO!” Mason shouts, and Christine lets loose an ear-piercing cry.

I tip my head to the ceiling, sighing. “Give me strength,” I mumble to no one in particular, then make my way to the bedrooms to deal with the kids.

Between mediating two more arguments before lunch, making said lunch, having said lunch knocked on the floor multiple times, wrestling Christine down for a nap, and cleaning up from a morning of children-created chaos, I don’t have much time to think about what Brandon said until hours later. I finally get a chance to eat my own meal—a sad peanut butter and jelly sandwich—standing at the kitchen island at around one in the afternoon, which is about when the full weight of our argument this morning presses on me.

I had been surprised he brought up that night, but I would be an idiot not to admit that my choices didn’t haunt me a little.

My sobriety isn’t a huge deal in our lives, or it hasn’t been until now. For most of my twenties, I didn’t think I had a drinking problem because I didn’t have a Hollywood drinking problem. I wasn’t in desperate need of alcohol to function. I wasn’t strung out. I just needed it to take the edge off the stress sometimes. And in social situations. And sometimes at work if someone was spending a lot of money; it said something about you if you knew which wine to pull out for which occasion. And then sometimes we pulled out more if we were working late and bored. Working at the gallery, I was surrounded by it. I started carrying tiny bottles of alcohol in my purse, just in case. It always felt like something adults did, and after my parents passed, I didn’t exactly have adult role models lining up to show me the way.

But when I found out I was pregnant with Mason, my first reaction was to grab a bottle of whiskey from the top of my refrigerator and take a long pull directly from the bottle. Just to calm my nerves. It tasted almost like ammonia, and I spit it out into the sink. It was at that moment that I realized two things: one, pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink shots of whiskey at ten in the morning on a Tuesday, and two, maybe no one is supposed to drink shots of whiskey at ten in the morning on a Tuesday. It was a quick realization: If my first reaction to a stressful situation is to take a pull of liquor straight from the bottle, I might have a problematic relationship with alcohol.

It was relatively easy to stay away from the booze when I was pregnant. Most people were accommodating, or cautionary—as if it was any of their business what I did with my body. But once Mason was born, it got a little more difficult. Babies are stressful, and people started inviting me out again. I’d turn them down, ostensibly because of the baby, but mostly because I didn’t want to be tempted to drink. I had this tiny baby who depended on me and only me, even though Brandon had been showing up every day after work to do what he could. I couldn’t be tipsy with a baby to care for. It was around that time that I started seeing my therapist, and she helped me stay the course. Brandon and I got engaged, my maternity leave ended, and I didn’t want to go back to work. He suggested I stay home if I wanted. The temptation was gone. But, with it went my friends and the life I had before Mason, too.

If I’m being completely honest, the whole city changed for me after that. The throngs of people and smashed-together buildings used to be manageable with something to take the edge off, but with a baby and no booze, it all started to feel claustrophobic. It was still magical. There’s an energy to New York that you can’t quite get anywhere else. But the energy felt more electric and less invigorating.

I suppose it had been out of character when I came home from the fundraiser a little tipsy. This morning, I had snapped at him about being allowed to have fun, but he had been right. It hadn’t been about having fun. It had been about desperation to feel like I fit in. I drank that champagne out of misery and kept drinking it all night, which is what I’ve spent the past eight-ish years trying not to do.

I pick at about half of the sandwich and push the rest around on my plate, eventually glancing at the clock. I had been hopeful that Brandon would make it back before we have to leave for ice skating, though I’m not surprised when he doesn’t.

By the time I dump the remnants of my sandwich in the trash and load all the dishes from lunch into the dishwasher, I can hear Christine singing to herself from her bedroom, and I finally come to terms with the realization that I’m going to have to take the kids by myself this year.

I draw out getting ready as long as I can, but when Brandon hasn’t shown his face by the time Mason comes out dressed in his ugly Christmas sweater and fleece pants, I know I can’t stall any longer.

We take the subway to get as close as we can to Rockefeller Center, which the kids always think is a treat. I think it’s awful, but the subway has always been a reminder of harder times. And, as with most things around the holidays, this is for them and not for me. When we get off the train, I lift a wriggling Christine into my arms and balance her on one hip while clutching Mason’s hand with the other. I’m as comfortable in the city as anyone else, but it’s crowded with holiday shoppers and tourists, and I’m alone with both kids.

By the time we climb the stairs out of the subway station, my right bicep is burning from holding Christine close to me, and I can barely feel the fingers of my left hand from Mason holding on tight. The pinch of my wedding band between the fingers he’s squeezing is starting to make me antsy.

It’s going to be a long night.

We slowly make our way across the couple of blocks to the giant Christmas tree and ice rink while pointing out decorations and light displays on the buildings we pass. Even while clutching two kids through throngs of people, Christmas in New York is magical. The millions of fairy lights twinkle all around us, and faint music plays over the hustle and bustle of the tourist crowds. Mason must feel it, too. As soon as we can see the outdoor ice rink, he speeds up, practically dragging Christine and me with him.

I let go of Mason’s hand and let him run a little ahead of me, then Christine starts wriggling to break free, so I put her down, as well.

“Hey!” Mason yells, his voice muffled by the wind and the crowd. “Is that Dad?” He stops in his tracks and points his mittened hand somewhere vaguely in front of him.

I don’t bother to look where he’s pointing. “Oh, I don’t think so, honey.” I come up next to him, holding Christine’s hand. “Your dad had to work today.”

The crestfallen look on Mason’s face kills me. I know disappointment is a part of life, but I hate it when my kids get their hopes up only to be shattered later, especially by their father. My own father disappointed me so many times I eventually became numb to it. I don’t want the same to happen to them.

Mason’s bottom lip starts quivering. I hadn’t realized he was looking forward to seeing Brandon as much as he was excited about the ice skating.

“But who is going to skate with us, then?” A big tear threatens to fall down his cheek.

I squat down in front of him so we’re eye-level. “Oh, kiddo. I’ll skate with you and Christine, okay?”

“But you hate ice skating.” His voice shakes, and then that tear does fall. It breaks my damn heart.

“I do,” I admit. There’s no sense lying to him. He’s old enough to remember the past few holiday seasons. Usually, Brandon skates with the kids while I get hot chocolate and watch from the side. I put a gloved hand on his cheek, brushing his tear away. “But I’ll do it for you. It’ll be fun, okay?”

Mason nods, but he continues to look down at his shoes as I stand and take his hand so we can make our way toward the line for skate rental. He squeezes it tight, pinching my fingers painfully around my wedding band again. I shift his hand in mine to stop the discomfort.

“Why the long face?” a man’s familiar voice booms from next to us. Mason’s entire countenance changes, his shoulders lifting and his face lighting up. Despite myself, my heart skips a beat at the sound.

Christine jumps up and down. “Daddy! Daddy!” she screams, then tears her hand free of mine, running toward Brandon, who is just a few feet away from us. As soon as she’s close enough, he grabs her under her arms and lifts her up, twirling her around. She giggles. Mason stays next to me, gripping my hand and smiling.

He settles Christine on a hip as she puts her arms around his neck and buries her face in the shoulder of his jacket. He crosses the distance between us, then reaches out to muss Mason’s hair. “What’s wrong, little man?”

“Oh, I just didn’t want Mom to have to ice skate with us because she hates it,” he says.