Back in December, 2009, Liz Burns, a librarian and blogger (most recently, for School Library Journal), asked on her blog for suggestions of children’s and young adult books where an alcoholic (including recovering alcoholics) is portrayed as something other than an evil, abusive person. I actually wrote about it here on Drinking Diaries, but as an addendum to another post, and I felt it should get its own post.

Burns cited two books: The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron (being in the program and recovery is a fact of life) and Once Was Lost by Sara Zarr (alcoholic parent as flawed, needing help, but not portrayed as evil or abusive).

Some other books that made the list:

Blessing’s Bead by Debby Dahl Edwardson

Last Night I Sang to the Monster by Benjamin Alire Saenz

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

Tempo Change by Barbara Hull

Up a Road Slowly by Irene Hunt

Rules of the Road by Joan Bauer

Best Foot Forward by Joan Bauer

Lush by Natasha Friend

Crash into Me by Albert Borris

Thanksgiving at the Inn by Tim Whitney

How To Say Goodbye In Robot by Natalie Standiford

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo

I would also add Elizabeth Scott’s portrayal of a teenage alcoholic to the list, in her book, Love You, Hate You, Miss You. And one of my own favorites when I was a teen, called The Late Great Me by Sandra Scoppetone. Also–The Spectacular Now, by Tim Tharp. Oh yeah, and a memoir by Susan Juby called Nice Recovery.

Anyone else have any books to add to the mix? Children’s? Teens? Adult books welcome, too. As far as adult books, I’ve mentioned how much I love Anne Lamott’s Rosie. Just read a great review of Lily King’s latest novel, Father of the Rain, which portrays an alcoholic father.

The following question and answer recently appeared in the Ask Amy column in the Washington Post. We thought our readers would be interested because the question speaks to another aspect of drinking: What if  you worry not about your own drinking, but about the drinking of someone you love? Do you agree with Amy’s advice, or would you offer some different thoughts?

DEAR AMY: Is there a difference between a heavy drinker and an alcoholic?

My husband goes through two cases of beer and two to four bottles of liquor every month (by himself) and usually has a minimum of three drinks every day. As soon as he walks in the door, he heads for the liquor cabinet.

In his favor, he always stops drinking once dinner is on the table (unless we are eating out, in which case he drinks a bottle of wine).

He rarely gets drunk; I can count the number of times I’ve seen him drunk in our 15 years together. He doesn’t pass out, and it hasn’t affected his ability to work. But he does get loud and can be argumentative after a few drinks.

I am very worried, frustrated and irritated by his drinking. I’ve asked him to quit — or at least cut back — many, many times. Sometimes he will go a day or two without drinking, but in no time, he’s back to his usual routine.

Is he the one with the drinking problem, or am I? — Worried Wife

DEAR WIFE: Your husband’s drinking is causing problems in your relationship, and I venture that you spend more time worrying about and compensating for his drinking than you even realize.

It’s evident that you are counting his drinks, carefully marking his consumption, watching his reactions and monitoring his behavior. No doubt you avoid some social situations, don’t make after-dinner plans and always drive after a night out.

Now that you’ve inventoried his drinking, take an honest inventory of the impact his alcohol use has on you and your relationship.

Then take yourself to an Al-Anon meeting. You’ll learn that distinctions between being a heavy drinker and an alcoholic don’t really matter. What matters are the choices you make for yourself. Check Al-anon.alateen.org for a local meeting.

Unless you have a tween in the house, you may not be familiar with the popular teen magazine, J-14, otherwise known as Justin Beiber-land. In a recent issue, the Hot Topic was drinking, so naturally, my 12-year-old daughter ran to show me the magazine.

We recently confronted the issue at Passover. After the seder, my daughter  said it was weird, because some of the teens at the table (all relatives of ours) were drinking wine. “But I don’t get it. It’s illegal,” she said.

What followed was me hem-ing and haw-ing, and then a frank discussion of when it’s okay to break rules or not. We talked about the Holocaust, 9-11 (when some people blindly followed the PA system’s call to “stay at your desk”) and that classic moral dilemma: Would you steal if you couldn’t afford the drugs that would save your child’s life? It’s one of those gray areas that marks adult thinking versus childhood’s black-and-white thinking. I’m glad life provided the opportunity to have this discussion, even though we didn’t come to any neat conclusions, and my daughter held her ground.

But back to the teen mag. When asked if they think it’s Okay to drink before the legal age, the readers of J-14 responded like this:

42% said yes! “It’s okay in moderation!” (everything in these mags has exclamation points)

58% said no! “I’ll pass on the alcohol!”

Some of those who felt it was okay to drink before the legal age mentioned special occasions  (sips of champagne on New Year’s, family gatherings). Another reader realistically pointed out the temptations in college (a younger drinking age would change the legality factor there).

What about those who said they wouldn’t drink before the legal age? One reader said, “I don’t understand why people drink. I don’t need alcohol to feel good.” Another pointed to her responsibility as a role model for her younger siblings. Another said she plans to never drink at all because she has a relative who is an alcoholic. Still another reader (Amanda Lynne) said the following: “I’m only in seventh grade and many kids are getting in major trouble for bringing alcohol like vodka to school. 12 is too young to drink! I definitely will wait ’til I’m legal–mostly because I think it’s the right thing to do.”

61% of the teens they polled had tasted alcohol. 39% had not.

List some words that describe you…

Artist, grandmother, ultra-liberal, health-conscious vegetarian, lover of nature, immigrant.

How old were you when you had your first drink?

I was in my early twenties, I was working as a children’s nurse at a hospital in the city. People smoked and drank. I did it, too.

What was your favorite drink?

I was never really hot for drinking. The only time I liked to drink was when I was on vacation with my girlfriends–we drank a lot of wine and other stuff in Greece and Spain, and I got a taste for it.

Did your parents or siblings drink?

My older brother drank (I am the youngest of 5). My other brother drank only on special occasions. Not my sisters or my mother. In those days (Europe in the 1940s and 50s) it wasn’t fashionable for women to drink. Men and boys drank, but mostly on special occasions, and at dances. I don’t know if my father drank. [He left the family when she was one.]

Was there alcoholism in your family?

According to a family tree that my oldest brother researched and made, one guy a long, long time ago was put in jail for drunken behavior. I have a picture of my father, in a Teetotaler’s Club.

When did your drinking cross a line? Were you aware that you had crossed a line?

In my early 40s. I had been socially drinking before then. I bought a gallon of wine and I drank all day long. I always had liquor in the house, mostly wine–Ernest & Julio Gallo was my favorite–because it was cheaper, and I thought wine wasn’t so bad.

Did anyone notice you were drinking too much?

My husband was nice, but he said things. Some of my friends noticed. Once, on vacation,  [the husband of a friend] said, “You don’t have to drink everything there is.” I guess I drank all the beer in the house. He bawled me out, and it was traumatic.

How was it raising two kids while drinking?

Miraculously, I could function–I don’t remember who made breakfast, or who made the lunches, but I always had dinner on the table.

What was the low point?

We went to Mexico City with our two children and stayed with a friend who had a huge property, like the Garden of Eden, surrounded by a high wall. I got so upset because there was a flood, and I felt like the Garden of Eden was being lost, so I drank myself into oblivion, and ended up in bed. In Mexico, I drank from beginning to end. When we came home, my husband said, “You have to do something about your drinking.” I got scared when he got serious. It’s hard even to think straight when you’re drunk all the time.

How did you get sober?

I was detoxed in a hospital. A lot of people do it themselves. I was in the care of a doctor, and I was in the hospital for at least a week, and then I went to a group for a long time, a therapy group run by this doctor, who was also a psychiatrist and a [recovered] alcoholic. He was the right guy for me. I also went to AA at least twice a week. I made all my friends there. I went to AA for many, many years–20 to 25 years.

Do you have any advice to someone trying to stay sober?

In my case, I had to think about something that could replace the drinking. I was still smoking. Stopping smoking [some years later] was extremely hard.

What helped you the most?

My husband was supportive. He stopped drinking. We had no liquor in the house. If we’d had liquor in the house, I know for sure I couldn’t have made it.

What’s the best part about being sober?

Everything. I was amazed at how I felt in my head. Before, my head felt heavy, like I had cottonballs in it. After I stopped drinking, I got so light; it felt great.

Did you ever have a relapse?

No.

Is there anything you miss about drinking?

Nothing. Sometimes, when I see people drink a little wine for dinner, I wish I could have that, but I put it far away from me. I know it’s untouchable. If I were to start drinking today, I would go back immediately to my dependence.

What’s your view of AA?

It’s great. It saved my life. If I were ever tempted, I’d go back.

Do you have a favorite quote or book or inspiration that has helped you through the years?

When I was in AA, somebody gave me a poem called “Desiderata.” When you drink, you have a lot of self doubt and guilt. It’s a three-fold illness: spiritual, emotional and physical. The poem helped because it says you shouldn’t compare yourself with others, and everybody has a right to be here on earth. Everybody who is born has a right. “The Big Book” from AA and the Twelve Steps helped very much, too. “The Big Book” helps, because it has drinking stories in it.

I don’t know about you, but my last few Sundays (and some Saturdays) have been filled with football. I have a husband and a son who are fairly smitten with watching overgrown boys run around a field in any type of weather throwing and chasing a ball, and then falling upon one another to retrieve what seems to be as valuable as a the Hope diamond, ignoring that they are potentially crushing someone else’s–or their own–skull.

It is commonplace on these long weekend afternoons for my two boys to sit on our family room couch, snacking on thick, extra dark pretzels (paying no attention to the crumbs and salt bits that fall in between the couch cushions) and drinking. If my nine-year-old is feeling really hyped up for the event, he’ll ask if he can have a soda–usually saved only for special occasions in our house–while my husband opts for a cold Saranac Black & Tan, his beer of choice on these special game days.

When game time begins and all players–and viewers– prepare for the coin toss (or on some days the pre-game show needs to be screened first), that’s my clue to take to the living room. I’ll usually curl up on the couch, with either a cup of tea or a glass of wine close by–book, newspaper, and laptop at the ready for at least four hours of quiet time (save for the occasional shrieks coming from the next room).

Once in a while, my husband will gently request (”quick! come fast! hurry up!”) that I come and join them to watch a replay of some guy running 40 or 50 yards down the field and then doing some kind of tribal dance in the endzone (that’s actually my favorite part). I oblige for the sake of my son. I don’t want him to think that his mom isn’t a woman with varied interests.

And then, I retreat to my corner in the next room. Happy. My husband chugs his beer and my son his soda, and both scream at the TV. I sip my wine (or tea), cozily engaging in reading and/or writing.

So, in truth, it turns out that football days are not so bad. This coming Sunday is a really big game, when my husband’s #1 team (NY Jets) will play against my son’s #1 team (Indianapolis Colts). There will probably be a lot of noise coming from our house as of 3:00 pm EST. I may hide out at a neighbor’s house. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll grab a beer and sit with the boys, pretending that I actually care…

by RhoRho

I’ve always said that I don’t trust people who don’t drink (yes, even out loud), so it’s only fitting that I’m married to someone who shares my affection for the booze.  We’re married with children, a dog, a mortgage and a ton of bills, and we do what most parents we know do to take the edge off at the end of the day: we drink. We don’t take any prescription or street drugs, we don’t smoke cigarettes or gamble away the family’s money on slot machines. We drink.

Sometimes my husband, who typically drinks quite responsibly, can get off his game. A few times a year, he gets around an old buddy, starts mixing it all up like a kid in a candy store, and gets good and shit-faced. He starts with vodka and Red Bulls, then goes to beer, then maybe some of my wine. He loses any shred of common sense. But me, I’m too fuzzy myself in those situations to notice, and sometimes, he doesn’t even appear to be all that drunk. But the next morning, he awakens, throws his arm across his forehead, lifts one knee up toward the ceiling, and coughs a little bit. This is when I know. The Hangover.

Now, normal people like me awaken, acknowledge the Hangover, moan a little bit, and get on with it. We have kids to feed, duties to perform, coffee to make. Not my husband. He is famous for the all-day hangover, and when he “pulls one,” as I have come to call it, he is either in the bed or hugging the toilet until about seven o’clock at night, when he suddenly pops up, takes a hot bath, and starts cleaning the house or something crazy like that.  He may not drink for a week or two after a really bad one, and I get lonely for my drinking buddy. If I do suffer from overindulging, I am out of commission (meaning wine) for one, two days, tops. What if I pulled an all-dayer, I ask?

When I see the first sign – the arm flinging over the forehead, I get furious. And I don’t mean furious on the inside, I mean steaming mad and threatening him with his life.  It’s not like, at the time, he has much control over his body, but my point is that, by God, he should’ve used his head last night and stuck to Michelob Ultra. I can’t be the booze police and have my own fun too! He has to be in fresh air to even try to recover, so on the last one, he got his ass up and out of the bed and into the yard, where he chopped wood in the rain… as he puked. What must the neighbors have thought? “That bitch runs a tight ship,” that’s what they thought.

At this point, yes, the booze is our stress relief, but when we think about the thousands of dollars that could be sitting cozily in the bank, we do question ourselves. And those dozens of hours lost on all those Saturdays, while the kids are asking, “Mommy what’s wrong with Daddy?” are irreplaceable, and he lost them to something as ridiculous as bingeing like a frat boy.

I do get nervous before a night out, and start threatening him before he even thinks about mixing. He doesn’t want The Hangover any more than I do. And me, I want a husband I can take places. But to his credit, it has dwindled down to only a few times a year.

We don’t really see ourselves ever giving it up totally, and we question what we would do if there were ever an ultimatum. Spouse or alcohol? Could the former even cope with the other if not for the latter? Make sense? So for now, we’re trying to be responsible drinkers, take taxis so the DHS doesn’t come get our kids, and enjoy it rather than depend on it. We’re trying, I said. Our own little Days of Wine and Roses.

RhoRho is a mother of two, wife, freelance writer, blogger, kid taxi service, budget traveler and wine enthusiast, among other things. She has been freelance writing here and there for several years, with writing for a magazine like National Geographic Traveler being one of her many ultimate goals. Rhonda lives with her husband, two kids, a Welsh Corgie and a Dwarf bunny, and travels whenever possible. Her blogs are: Momwhodrinksandcusses and Wine4poorishfolk

The other day, I opened up the fridge in my kitchen to get something to drink–like a glass of orange juice or sparkling water. I pulled the door ajar, and noticed an open bottle of Fiddlehead Cellars Sauvignon Blanc, flanked in between a container of milk and the Hershey’s chocolate syrup. I couldn’t help but wonder: what do my children (ages 16, 13 and 9) think when they search for a beverage and come across that green bottle, half full and stuffed with a cork?

The truth is, I don’t think they think much of it. And I’m glad they don’t. In our home, wine is enjoyed with food by my husband and me as much and as frequently as a mug of hot cocoa or a chilled glass of lemonade. My kids ask for the occasional taste, and we allow them, hoping that this may be the better–and more sensible–route to avoiding the “forbidden fruit” phenomenon.

On the other hand, they have come to realize–and we have openly discussed–the fact that their grandmother is an alcoholic. So, I assume there is some concern on their part when they see their mom and dad sipping away during most of our family dinners.

My great hope is that our model of moderation is something they are steadily absorbing. That they understand that it is possible–for many, but not all–to enjoy the fruit of the vine without getting drunk, plastered or addicted. They’ve seen a close family member in bad shape. And in some way, I’m not unhappy that they’ve seen it, because it perhaps shows them that when abused, drinking can lead them down a potentially tragic path.

So for the meantime, we’ll continue to leave those open and unfinished bottles of wine in our fridge (when my mother is not around, that is). And it’ll hopefully continue to be as mundane for my kids as a jar of mustard, a container of yogurt, a bottle of marinade, or whatever else they’ll find in there…

To let your teens sip, or not to let them sip champagne on New Year’s Eve? That is the question. 

Perhaps you’ll be sitting at home with your family, having a glass of champagne and watching the ball drop. Or maybe you’ll be having a party, or out at a party, or on vacation, where there’s drinking aplenty.

Maybe you’re not a parent, but you probably have an opinion, nonetheless. So do you approve or disapprove of teens sipping champagne along with their parents on New Year’s?

There are two camps: the loosen-up it’s New Year’s camp, and the it’s illegal and unhealthy to drink underage–even a sip–camp. Which camp are you in?

Here at drinking diaries, we have previously come down on the side of let your teen have a sip; what harm can it do? If alcohol is made to be forbidden or taboo, then it becomes desirable to a teen. Letting them have sips of champagne teaches moderation, and let’s face it, most kids have tried alcohol before 18. But there’s another side that’s equally compelling, as we read in a recent article on the Canadian newswire.

John Lieberman, director of operations for Visions Adolescent Treatment Centers in Malibu and Brentwood, California, is opposed to introducing kids to alcohol at home. According to Lieberman, “The studies show that the earlier someone has their first experience with drugs or alcohol or R-rated movies or sex, the earlier somebody does that, the more apt they are to have an addiction or a problem or consequences as a result of that behavior.”

Even in France, where the attitude toward drinking is perceived as laissez-faire, they’ve raised the drinking age from 16 to 18, due to increases in binge drinking and alcohol-induced hospitalizations.

Consider the words of Jeffrey Wolfsberg, head of a company that offers seminars to students and parents on drug and alcohol use and prevention: “When we look at who struggles with alcohol-related problems in college, it’s not the kids who go off with no drinking experience. It’s the kids who have established drinking patterns in high school.”

Interesting, but that wasn’t the case with me. I had no drinking experience whatsoever when I went off to college, and I went nuts. I had no idea how to drink; no idea of my limits. I was like a kid in a candy store.

So perhaps there’s no easy answer. When asked the question, “should parents let their teens have sips of champagne on New Years?” even Wolfsberg says maybe…maybe not:  ”Both approaches are fine..it’s not so much what’s being done–it’s the meaning [behind it] that matters most.”

So what will your approach be this New Year’s Eve? What is your opinion?

Last Spring, as I attended my fifth grader’s graduation from D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), I found myself acting like a kid myself–making snide remarks to my husband and getting all squirmy in my seat while I sneered at the suck-ups who read their winning essays.

“They’re like little robots,” I said. “We will ne-ver drink or do drugs.”

“Yeah, sure,” I found myself mumbling even though, throughout high school, I could have been a poster child for D.A.R.E., which is now taught in 80% of school districts.

So why the hostility and regression, on my part? Maybe it was the echoes of Nancy Reagan’s prissy, preachy “Just Say No” campaign, which seemed only to spur teenagers on to want to do more drugs, just to piss Nancy off.

But there had to be something else.

The uneasiness began when a female police officer came to a PTA meeting to discuss the program with us. After she spoke, the mothers in the audience had many questions. “I have a glass of wine or two on Friday nights in front of my children. Is that okay?”

And then someone asked the police officer, “Do you or did you drink?” “If so, do you tell your children?” The officer laughed and said something to the effect of, “I was kind of wild, but they don’t have to know that.” While I don’t feel the need to tell my kids the details of every college bender I ever went on, I don’t think I need to hide my moderate drinking from my children. That seems ludicrous. As the daughter of an alcoholic, I have a real problem with hiding things from my children (the elephant in the living room). Also, by making alcohol forbidden or taboo, it will only increase the thrill of sneaking.

After my daughter started her D.A.R.E. education, my daughter looked at a glass of wine in my hands like it was a gun.

Therein lies the problem with D.A.R.E.–they fail to make a distinction between that which is legal, accepted behavior (moderate alcohol consumption when you’re of drinking age) and that which is illegal (Drugs). In D.A.R.E. world, everything is bad. Period. While I’m grateful to the schools for trying to make kids more street smart and savvy, and I am all for it, I am not for moralizing. The facts, pure and simple, should speak for themselves. You can drink when you’re of legal drinking age. Period. Some people have a disease called alcoholism, and these people cannot drink. Some people drink too much and can get very sick, or even die. If you have a genetic predisposition to alcoholism, you should be careful. These kinds of facts are helpful, not: “Never drink.” Because the fact is (and the statistics bear me out), most teens will at least try drinking. The best part of the program is where they arm kids with ways to deal with peer pressure, and alternatives to drinking.

Equating drinking with drug use is, in my opinion, setting kids up for subterfuge and shame. Studies have shown that DARE actually increases girls’ drug use and drinking.

So what, then, is effective, if not DARE and its scare tactics? Addiction expert Stanton Peele has an interesting take on these programs:

“The prevailing prevention approach is to tell everyone not to do these things, claim no one successful has ever done them, and carry on with what everyone knows to be a complete fiction. (Think of Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama.)

Well, this is not the whole story. Neural research indicates that adolescent brains program kids to try risky behaviors. It is unlikely we will soon prevent large numbers of teens from drinking and using drugs. Yet, subtracting the approximately 20 million current drug users from the 110 million plus people who once used, almost 100 million Americans have left drugs behind. Perhaps it can be good for young people to learn that as they mature they can, and will, straighten out and fly right?

This is the opposite of the approach of nearly all school drug education programs. Here the logic is to troop in people who have ruined their lives by their drug use and drinking, as object lessons in the evils of sin. But there are reasons to believe that kids reject negative messages from figures like these, and that purely scare tactics don’t work. Research on effective drug resistance programs finds that the best ways to prevent substance abuse are for kids to develop skills, feel good about themselves, have positive peers, and look forward to their futures.

From this perspective, Mr. Obama’s message that he briefly stumbled but then righted himself to achieve success may be just what the doctor ordered.”

D.A.R.E. is not the only program out there. Alternative solutions abound–programs, for example, that focus on developing positive behaviors rather than avoiding negative behaviors–and are worth looking into. While I believe it’s important to educate our children about drugs and alcohol and their effects, preaching and fear-mongering are not the answers. Instead of saying what we don’t want our children to do, let’s give them some ideas and role-modeling about what we would like them to do.

It’s the Night Before Thanksgiving, and chances are, your teens will want to go out and meet their friends or hang out with their older siblings. You’re so busy cooking, you’ll most likely be relieved to have the house to yourself. But before you let them go, check the liquor!

Turns out Thanksgiving-Eve Night–the night before Thanksgiving–is the biggest night for underage drinking, even more than graduation or prom night. The fridge and the liquor cabinets are stocked, parents are distracted by relatives and dinner preparations, and older siblings or college-age friends are around…

Today, one of our favorite social websites, SHE WRITES, is encouraging everyone to buy at least one book written by a woman in 2009. Why? Well, to support women writers, but also in protest of Publishers Weekly’s Top Ten Books of 2009–which featured NOT ONE book by a woman. So, with our hats off to SHE WRITES, here is our pick for a Great Book Written by a Woman in 2009–Mary Karr’s LIT:

We are thrilled to bring you an excerpt from this amazing memoir (reprinted with permission from her publisher, HarperCollins). In this passage, Ms. Karr explores how she bonded with her father through drinking. Something to think about: How has drinking (or not drinking) bonded you with people, or separated you from them?

From LIT:

For the first time in front of me, he drew a pint bottle from under his seat. He put the upended lid in the ashtray, and before he handed the bottle over, he drew out a corner of his shirttail to wipe the top with, saying, Want a swig?

As a kid sitting on the bar, I’d sipped beer through the salted tri- angle of his aluminum can, but Daddy had so long and adamantly denied drinking every day that Mother had long since stopped asking. And he’d sure as hell never handed me any hard liquor.

Daddy’s wink echoed our old conspiracy: me and him against Mother and Lecia, whose tightly guarded collusions were traded in whispers and giggles that he and I were meant to stay deaf to.

The bottle gleamed in the air between us. I took the whiskey, planning a courtesy sip. But the aroma stopped me just as my tongue touched the glass mouth. The warm silk flowered in my mouth and down my gullet, after which a little blue flame of pleasure roared back up my spine. A poof of sequins went sparkling through my middle.

As he went to screw the lid back on, my hand swung out of its own accord, and I said, Can I have another taste?

That taste started me seeking out more hard liquor once I was back at school, though drugs were still easier to come by even than beer. I did okay at old Lackluster College—in no way a star, but neither the abject flop I’d figured on. Daddy carried my grade reports in his ancient wallet.

But it’s a truism, I think, that drunks like to run off. Every reality, no matter how pressing—save maybe death row—has an escape route or rabbit hole. Some drinkers go inward into a sullen spiral, and my daddy was one of these; others favor the geographic cure. My mother taught me to seek external agents of transformation—pick a new town or man or job.

That’s why I left college at the end of my sophomore year: I just got this urge to run off, maybe because friends in a band were heading for Austin. Or all the rich kids were going abroad. Or maybe the course work was getting too hard, and I couldn’t face losing my scholarships and reentering the hairnet. I floundered and skipped classes that winter till, shortly before finals that spring, I just stopped showing up. LIT. Copyright © 2009 by Mary Karr.

Mary Karr is an award-winning poet and best-selling memoirist. Her memoir Lit, which is excerpted above, is the long-awaited sequel to her critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling memoirs The Liars’ Club and Cherry. To find out more about Mary Karr, or to order a copy of LIT, go to www.harpercollins.com

by Maura Kelly

The first time I got drunk was during a New Year’s Eve party my parents
threw when I was a kid. I stole three unattended glasses of red wine and
secretly gulped them down while sitting underneath the kitchen table. Less than an hour later, my Dad tells me, I passed out in the middle of the living room, snoring.

I was 3 years old.

Getting my lips on booze was an easy thing to do in my Irish
immigrant family. As a kid, I sipped the foam off the top of my dad’s
beers, or sneaked slurps of his favorite drink, gin and tonic. I liked
to surreptitiously fill up on ignored champagne during weddings and
holiday parties. More than anything else, I craved the giddiness the
bubbly affected in me.

Though I was usually able to keep my habit a secret, I unintentionally outed myself when I was a high school sophomore, the day a distant relative got married. During the reception, as I table-hopped looking for flutes filled with toasting fluid, I introduced myself to an older man. The stranger was so friendly that I asked him if he’d give me his champagne. He not only obliged but poured me my own glass of red wine. When he saw how quickly I drank the stuff, he poured me another and another.

Trying to consume as many as possible before our transgression was
detected, I drank furiously until, a few Zinfandels in, I wondered why
my head didn’t feel connected to my body anymore. I glanced down to look
for my nose, which I was sure had fallen off and was mingling with the
leftover scraps of filet mignon and baby potatoes on the plates in front
of me.

I excused myself in alarm to go to the ladies’ room. But my aunt,
unaware that I was drunk, intercepted me, dragged me to the dance floor
and forced me to do the Chicken with her. Eager to appear normal, I
wiggled my butt as hard as I could — so hard, in fact, that I lost my
balance and plowed headfirst into the dance floor.

Following my performance, I passed out in a private room. After my
dad found me there, he told me we were going home. I stumbled out to his
car, sat in the passenger seat and threw up in his lap before he even
started the engine.

In front of my dad, I feigned shame about what I’d done, but the
next day I bragged to my friends about it. Barfing meant I’d been really
wasted, and I thought that was as cool as sneaking cigarettes in the
school bathroom. Of course I was getting drunk in non-family
settings by that point, too, and generally doing my best to develop a
wild reputation. Every once in a while when I was intoxicated I did
something really dangerous, like drunk driving or walking along the
railing of a third-story porch. But I thought those things, while
regrettable, added to my tough-girl legend.

My boozing increased exponentially during four years at an Ivy
League college. I was never competitive about grades or
extracurriculars, but I was competitive about partying. As an undergrad,
I spent most of my hours getting intoxicated or recovering from a
hangover. By the time I graduated, I was getting drunk at least three or
four times a week. Most boozing nights, I would have at least eight
or nine before I started to lose count. Wild Turkey and Diet Coke — a Diet Turkey — was my cocktail of choice
since the alcohol content was high, the calories were low and it went
down fast. But I also drank  just about anything I could get my hands on except beer, because it never
messed me up fast enough.

One night, a little more than a year after I had finished college,
I did something I had done a number of times already: Inebriated, I took
home a stranger I met in a bar. (I hooked up drunkenly as an undergrad
all the time, but my campus was so small it was almost impossible to
find someone I didn’t know.) The next morning, when the guy left my
Adams Morgan apartment, I figured I’d never have to see him again. But
he got my number from information and called every night for a week.
When I wouldn’t pick up his calls or ring him back, he started coming to
my window at night and screaming my name from the sidewalk. After a few
nights I was unsettled enough to pick up the phone the next time he
began leaving a message and ask him to please leave me alone. He
repeatedly asked why I had acted so passionately that night, angrily
resisting the explanation that I had done so primarily because I’d been
blind drunk. Luckily, after we hung up I never heard from him again.

Though that incident seriously spooked me, I decided the problem
was him, not me. So I didn’t change my ways. My next significant
and inevitable scare came when I was 25. Around 10 p.m. one Saturday, I
went to an open-bar party for a friend. The next thing I remember, it
was Sunday afternoon and I was lying in my West Village apartment in my
underwear. It seemed clear a visitor had spent the night with me, and my
apartment door was unlocked, as if a person without a key had let
himself out. Later that afternoon, after I had tried for hours to dredge
up any memory of what had happened, I started phoning friends to see if
anyone knew what I had done. No one was surprised I couldn’t recall
much. They were used to my blackouts, which had been happening regularly
since college. Only one friend knew anything: She had watched me getting
into a cab with a guy she had never seen before.

Another friend — who was not that much of a drinker — happened to
call that day and was shocked when I told her about the mystery du jour.
”I’ve been volunteering with a rape crisis hotline and it sounds like
you’re a rapist’s ideal target,” she said. “Are you sure you weren’t
attacked last night?”

Though I thought she was overreacting, her response helped me realize
my behavior was not cool, and potentially life-threatening. I was lucky
the guy, like all the other unknowns I have been alone with over the
years, wasn’t a rapist or a murderer.

The thing that finally made me turn a corner was telling my therapist that I had never kissed a
guy sober in my life. Not in my whole life, and I was in my
mid-twenties. The fact had never shocked me until that moment, when I
said it out loud. While alcohol might have helped me get physically
intimate, it was preventing me from getting emotionally intimate and
from developing into a mature, healthy, normal adult. I always thought
alcohol made me sexy, powerful, brave and interesting. But I started to
realize that more than anything, it made me ugly, weak, cowardly and
boring. It made me a loser. And that reality was scarier than the threat
of death.

So the last time I got drunk was March 3, 2001. Have I missed it? Sure, it was difficult to get through the first few parties without it.
And often, when I feel frustrated or unhappy, I am tempted to whiskey my
woes away. But then I realize a vicious hangover will only make my
dissatisfaction with life worse, and that a meaningless sexual encounter with a stranger will not provide happy memories. It’s also been great to find that kissing and all that goes with it is actually better when I’m
sober. Though I never thought I would, I feel more in control of myself,
my prospects and my experiences now that I’m not drinking.

I desperately wish I could be a kid again and do it all over.
Instead of sharpening my drinking skills during my young adulthood, I
would have read more poetry, written more short stories, acted in more
plays, maybe learned to play the guitar. Maybe I would have fallen in
love. And I often wonder how different my writing career might be if I
had never had the handicap of a heavy boozing habit.

Getting wasted isn’t cool. It’s not courageous or tough or
rebellious or bold or beautiful. More than anything else, it’s a waste
of your time and your youth.

Maura Kelly recently finished her first novel and is looking for a publisher. Her personal essays have appeared in The New York Times, the New York Observer, The Daily Beast, Salon and other publications.  She writes a dating blog for Marie Claire www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/dating-blog/.

(*A longer version of this essay was originally printed in The Washington Post in 2002.)

by Meg Akabas

Did I have the “drinking” talk with my kids?  No, I did not.

You may find that shocking since I am a mother of four and a parenting consultant. Let me explain.

If we had sat down and talked to our kids when they were age 14 (or 13, or 16) about drinking responsibly, I’m convinced that it wouldn’t have done a bit of good. As with any other topic, if you wait to talk to your kids about something until they are grown, it’s really too late.

Teaching our children about restraint has been a cornerstone of our parenting philosophy since day one. Research shows that fostering self-discipline in age-appropriate ways early and often is the best way to end up with kids (and ultimately grown-ups) who can control their impulses. And, studies show that teaching children self-discipline generally produces better-behaved and more successful kids.

Babies are not born with self-control; cognitive scientists say that practicing restraint from a young age can significantly improve a person’s ability to curb impulses later in life. My husband and I guided this process, giving our children opportunities to develop self-control by having them experience waiting, sharing, and not always getting everything they wanted (yes, disappointment is OK!).

For example, you could foster restraint using our method of resisting demands for toys and other things by creating a gift list for each of your kids.  When your children see something they want, tell them that you will put it on the list of potential gifts for his or her next birthday or for holiday (whichever is coming up sooner).  When you return home, in fact, write the item on his/her gift list.  The list will satisfy their immediate craving. Then, when birthdays and holidays roll around, they will know what to request from grandparents and other relatives when asked what they want.

However, we found with our kids that often, well before the gift-giving occasion did roll around, even on occasion by the next time we looked at the list to add a suggestion, more than half of the items on the list were already out of favor!  The kids could actually see on their own how much their wants were mere whims that changed even before the item could be acquired. This delayed gift plan was one of many strategies we used to foster self-control in our children.

We also tried our best to be models of restraint and moderation ourselves by keeping an appropriate voice volume, choosing our words carefully, conserving materials, exercising, eating well, and being frugal. (I know – it sounds demanding…it is.)  Even though my husband and I are far from perfect, it seems to have made an impression on our kids, who all appear to be quite self-disciplined as teenagers and young adults.

So, instead of the “drinking talk,” we’ve had discussions (not lectures) about restraint in general on an ongoing basis. We’ve helped our kids to develop self-control in all aspects of life, and made our best effort to model moderation ourselves.  All this superseded the need for a discussion about drinking.

Don’t get me wrong; I distinctly remember telling my kids somewhere along the way about the health benefits and risks of drinking, the absolute, hands-down, non-negotiable rule of never getting into a car with someone behind the wheel who has been drinking, and the dangers of excessive drinking (sometimes fatal) associated with hazing. But, these were discussions that came up at various critical times and special situations (before prom night, before leaving for college) as a reminder of what we had already taught them.

“Everything in moderation” is what we have instilled in our children. And, that goes for alcohol as well. It has worked for us for two reasons: the fact that my children have grown up in New York City and don’t drive is a salient factor. The other factor is that there is no history of alcoholism or any sort of addictive behavior in either my family or my husband’s.  So, for us, moderation has been a strong enough warning. Other parents would need to alter their message to suit their particular situation.

Nevertheless, as a parenting skills educator, my advice to other parents is that your attitude and approach to teaching your kids about drinking should be the same as all other things you teach your children. In short, you must start young and it should be a part of overall values you instill in your children. My point is that a “talk” just isn’t going to cut it as they head off to their first party.

What is my own relationship to drinking?  I have a glass of wine at the very end of most days for enjoyment and as a health measure (though the jury is still out on this one). I admit — wine and cheese are actually my two favorite food indulgences (even over chocolate)! Sure, there are times when I have to resist a second or third glass of wine (or piece of cheese); at those times, a little voice thankfully reminds me what I’ve hammered into my kids — you know — restraint….

Meg Akabas is a parenting skills educator and the founder of Parenting Solutions. She offers individual consultations, workshops and new mothers’ groups as well as information and advice on her website and a free bi-monthly parenting newsletter.  Visit her website at www.parenting-solutions.com, sign up for her newsletter at http://www.parenting-solutions.com/contact/, or e-mail her at parenting-solutions@earthlink.net.

By Sara Eckel

A few years ago, I went to an artists’ colony in upstate New York. I was excited to spend August working on my novel in the lush countryside and looked forward to quick day trips to a nearby swimming hole and to long summer nights chatting and drinking beer by the bonfire. But at dinner that first night, one of the residents complained about her awful stay at a nearby residency. “It was a cocktail party,” she said. The others quickly agreed that that was not what they were into.

Rats.

I had every intention of working hard on my book, but I didn’t see how that precluded having a little fun. This was an artists’ colony, not a convent. And anyway, aren’t artists supposed to be deviants and derelicts? Isn’t being a screw-up kind of the point?

These ladies—and they were all ladies—were true to their word. They were no fun at all. As I went to bed at 9 p.m., with a glass of wine and a book, I started looking forward to Labor Day, when my family and two others would meet up in Lake George. It was a decades-old tradition, spending the last weekend of summer at Julie’s beautiful house on the lake. Days were spent lounging on the dock and bobbing in big black inner tubes, cold beer in hand. Evenings were spent playing cards and petty gambling games. And drinking—lots and lots of drinking. One lonely night in my studio, I found myself thinking, “I can’t wait to see my parents. Then I can party.”

That stopped me cold. Parents? Party? Wow, I was having a bad time.

Since then, I have accepted the slightly unsettling truth: My parents are fun. Not only that, they are oftentimes more fun than my peers. My friends in New York City are delightful, nothing like the dour artist-colony ladies, but I have noticed a disturbing trend in my social circles: People are drinking less. No one has quit drinking all together, but I’ve noticed an uptick in the number of times a dinner companion says “just water for me” or requests a Diet Coke instead of that second Pinot Grigio.

Normally, I would chalk this up to maturity. My friends have grown up, and maybe I should too. Age and sobriety are inextricably linked, right? Then I visit my 64-year-old parents, and I’m offered glass after glass of wine. Actually, I’m not even offered. My father simply refills my glass each time the bottom threatens to make itself visible. When the bottle is kicked, he asks if anyone would be interested in a Scotch.

When I’m with my friends, I often feel like a lush when I order third beer. When I’m with my parents, I vigilantly space my drinks with water, and frequently put my hand over my glass. What’s going on?

My family’s cavalier attitude toward alcohol is a definitely a product of good luck— none of us have suffered any grave consequences as a result of drinking. When I was growing up, Dad never started yelling after his second Manhattan, and Mom never fixed herself a tearful vodka tonic in the middle of the afternoon. I can only recall a few times in my life that I’ve seen my parents visibly drunk—usually at weddings or Christmas Eves, in the midst of having a wonderful time. For my very, very fortunate family, the most severe repercussions of having one too many are hangovers and mild embarrassment.

So, yes, we appreciate a good buzz-on. And sure we love the taste—I enjoy identifying blackberry mixed with cedar on the side of my tongue or what-the-hell-ever. But I don’t think this is what our drinking is about. Whether I’m sitting on my parents’ back porch or barbecuing on our building’s roof deck with my boyfriend, I will contend that kicking back with a cold white and good company is one of life’s greatest pleasures. The fact that I don’t want to stop at one glass has less to do with my need for an altered state than it does the simple fact that I don’t want the evening to end.

But couldn’t I keep rocking on with herbal tea and sparkling water? In theory, yes, but somehow it doesn’t work like that. I’ve noticed that people who stop at one glass of wine are also the first to look at their watch at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night and state that they’ve got an early day tomorrow.

This, I think, is partly a hazard of living in New York City. Contrary to its never-sleeps reputation, I have found that my very ambitious crowd of novelists, journalists and filmmakers are pretty vigilant about getting their seven hours.

My parents and their friends, by contrast, are not striving for any top 40 under 40 lists, nor do they have small children to care for (though in my completely unscientific study I have not found a relationship between the existence of offspring and the desire for another round). Age has, in a sense, freed my parents from worrying about the future. As my dad says as he uncorks yet another bottle, “What am I waiting for?”

Last winter, my parents and two other couples took a trip to China. After showing me the pictures of the locals he met in an open-air market (while blowing off the silk-rug factory tour), he proudly informed me how he smuggled beer onto their coach bus.  “We were the party bus,” he said.

When I am 64, I certainly hope that my beloved will continue to need and feed me. But mostly, I hope we’ll be on the party bus.

Sara Eckel’s short fiction has been published in Speakeasy and Sanskrit, and her essays and reported pieces have appeared in The New York Times, Salon, Nerve, Glamour and the Village Voice. She has just completed her first novel.

By Becky Sherrick Harks

I am an adult child of two alcoholics, and although there are nifty acronyms used to refer to us, I prefer my real name: Becky. The Internet knows me as Aunt Becky and I blog over at a seemingly incongruently named site: “Mommy Wants Vodka.” Perhaps you have heard of me, mixed into articles about Diane Schuler, the lady who killed her kids, bashing me for being a Cocktail Mom.

My blog was named as a tongue-in-cheek joke, which is easily lost in the negativity swirling about the tragedy. Perhaps on paper (or computer screen) this is how I sound: like a lousy drunk who is unfortunately a mother. When, you know, I can sober up enough to actually, you know, parent my children. I hate to shatter expectations to those looking for a quick target to let their anger at alcoholics out on, but I am not a drunk. Humor–tasteless to you, perhaps–is the way that I cope.

In reading up on the other issues facing my cohorts, my fellow children of alcoholics–who also, presumably, have names–I think that in spite of the flack that I get, humor is the far healthier way to handle it. I’ve somehow, by the grace of God, perhaps, been able to avoid many of the nastier lasting effects of my childhood. I am not shy, I do not suffer from low self esteem, and I don’t obsessively hoard china cat figurines.

I do have anxiety and guilt, and I frequently blame myself for things that never had anything to do with me. I cannot trust even my husband with certain things, not because he wouldn’t be unfailingly kind, but because it is ingrained in me to not trust other people.

For all of the controversy surrounding me on The Internet, on the sites that bash me, nothing–NOTHING–can compare to what swirls within me. Every day, every single day that I wake up, I wonder if today will be the day that it hits. We adult children of alcoholics are four times more likely than the general population to develop issues with substance abuse. FOUR TIMES.

For someone like me, who has not one, but two alcoholic parents, this number must be infinitesimally higher. So I wait. Somewhat impatiently, I wait for the day when I will feel the need to become staggeringly drunk and fall down the stairs. Or take to my bed, weeping at what has become of me.

It’s exhausting, this waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But I don’t think that drinking is Of The Devil, no matter how much I hate the smell of scotch and the scent memories that live on, well beyond their lifespan. While I do not recall the last time I had a drink, I have had one and I will continue to have them now and again. The liquor cabinet is well-stocked at my house, and always has been. I’ve not felt the urge to drink myself to obliteration in at least five years and I don’t longingly wait for a cocktail at the end of a long day. Frankly, for as uncool as I will no doubt paint myself now, forever banned from the tattoo-biker moms, I’d be horrified to drink at a playdate.

So I sit and I wait, and while I do this, I build a life for myself: I’m a mother, a writer, a wife and a friend. A daughter. A sister. A niece and a cousin.

My name is Becky, and I am not an alcoholic.

Becky Sherrick Harks is an overachieving nurse who retired from the profession after an admirable 3 months. She stays home now, writing, raising kids and making mischief. She blogs at Mommy Wants Vodka (http://www.mommywantsvodka.com) pretty much every day that ends in “day.”