Tea with Honey & Lemon

I used to think I deserved it – I’d convinced myself, really.

Mornings were for coffee: a dash of cream and that warm, sunrise hug filling my favorite cup. That has always been enough for me at 6 AM.  Watching the pink sky give way to blue, hearing my boys yawn and sneak out of their beds, all with perfect mental clarity. Work, school, afternoon obligations have always been happily saturated in water or a cup of lemon tea.

It was evenings that called for something stronger.

Like clockwork, from Monday to Friday, I’d step over the mess of backpacks and shoes in the foyer, put on a pot of water for dinner and dismiss the kids to their rooms. There was a pull in my belly, an anticipation; no matter how easy the day, there was a need. That last part I’d ignore, as I uncorked a new bottle of red and pulled my favorite glass from the cabinet. There was always a hesitation, barely a tangible moment, but one that I recognize in hindsight. I’d known long before I stopped drinking that it was doing me no good.

There are no exciting details to explore here. I was the unsuspecting sort of alcoholic of the mommy-needs-wine culture, laughing and shaking my head as my kids called my name for the hundredth time, sipping out of a cute blue glass with the words “mom juice” printed in pleasant cursive on the side. Never belligerent but never not foggy. I erred on the side of a functional buzz, packing next-day lunches, helping with homework, reading a final goodnight book. Waking early with the smallest tug of a headache that was never enough to hinder obligations. Real alcoholics skip out on daily duties, right?

Once we made it to the weekend, the small pinch of guilt would disappear completely. It was the weekend, after all.

So, it has hit me, now six months sober (a phrase I never thought would leave my lips) how much I’d missed. I look at my children’s faces and wonder how they’ve gotten so much older right under my nose, but it had been happening quietly in their rooms on evenings after school when mom was in the kitchen uncorking another bottle and breathing a sigh of relief.

I sip hot tea with lemon on my couch after dinner and wonder if the sun has always burned so brightly and brilliantly just before settling in for the evening. I wake even earlier than I used to now, curious of where I gained the will to do so. In a whisper so much has changed.

Six months ago, I had no memory of ever spending an entire day with the factory version of adult me. Every new 24 hours was a race to the finish line: comfy clothes and six ounces of red (always followed by more). On the occasional afternoon alone, I’d turn on a favorite show to catch a new episode and realize I couldn’t remember what happened in the one before it. I’d search frantically for a piece of jewelry because I couldn’t recall what room I was in when I removed it the previous evening. The shame burned a secret hole in my chest.

Learning to sit with yourself can be awkward, painful, and achingly eye-opening. When I decided to stop drinking, I was scared to death to scratch the surface.

In month one, I cried. A lot. I had no choice but to face how strong the pull really was. The embarrassment of that realization was palpable.

Month two was quieter; I’d crave melatonin tea with a dash of magnesium at the end of the day. I found myself asking more questions about my fourth grader’s day and noticed that my focus never strayed as he recounted an intense game of kickball at recess.

By month three there was an elation, for how long it’d been since my last drink and for my newfound coherence. But that was also the point at which I really saw my children growing and changing - a blessing now to be present for it, but devastating when I considered how much time I’d wasted looking the other way.

Month four was for rediscovering how to navigate holidays and social events without alcohol. I watched all our favorite Christmas movies and marveled at warm lights in the snow like I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I remembered my love for hot chocolate with a candy cane swizzle stick. My heart swelled as I watched my boys sleep by the tree. Genuine, sober, love. I’d never felt such unblemished joy.

I was strutting through my new routine in month five, making two extra cups of tea before bed since the boys were now asking for some. A dash of honey for one, an extra lemon slice for the other. That tug in my belly as the sun went down was now for fuzzy slippers and my favorite purple robe.

So, what is clarity? I think I finally understand.

Today I’ve stepped into month six and my vision has never been clearer. This vision is slow, present, and full of purpose. In this half a year I’ve been busy banking memories, real and raw. Every detail is accounted for. In ten years, I will close my eyes and remember with perfect precision the outline of my youngest’s mouth, and the profile of my eldest’s nose. I will confidently recall the sound of their small voices calling out mama before they deepened. I’ll know one came up to my shoulder the year we vacationed at the beach, crashing through the waves every morning, the other to my hip. And I’ll remember the way their breath sounded at the end of each day as we snuggled together in my bed.

Clarity has changed my view of the world, and how I fit into my cozy little piece of it. And if there’s one thing I’ve been most surprised to discover, it’s that being in my own company isn’t all that bad.