Last Halloween

I LOVE HALLOWEEN, but my poor time management has led me to have this amazingly costumed, warm, prepared kid in contrast to me, who ran out of the house in ballet flats, has no jacket and is already damp with stress sweat. It’s windy and rainy, and as we run, late to meet the other kids and their moms, the wet ground soaks my inappropriate shoe wear immediately. Despite all of it, I’m so happy to be here seeing the pure joy on the kid's little faces as they go up to their first few houses.

Nothing brings out mommy wine

culture and roadies like Halloween, But not for me this year. It’s 2022, and I’m ten months sober. I have a smile on my face, a bubbly in my purse, and apprehension in my gut that quickly turns to relief when I learn that these moms have coffee, not wine, in their travel mugs. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t always have wine in my mug on Halloween. Sometimes it was hot milk, Kailua and Baileys 🙃. The fact that these moms have neither stings a bit with judgment for my old self but feels comforting.

There's something about other moms that has always brought up feelings of inadequacy for me. I always felt slightly less prepared than the women beside me. (I look at my shoes and think there may be some validity to that.) but tonight, I feel good in my new sober skin. There's a confidence that’s come with the absence of booze-related anxiety. It’s one of the best rewards of quitting drinking, trailing only slightly behind sleep quality.

As the kids trick or treat, I walk and talk with the mom that’s most familiar to me. The first time we met, she invited me in for a drink. I was caught off guard and stumbled a bit, saying no thanks, probably acting strange about it. It dawns on me now she may have meant tea or soda. Was it just me? Did I jump to the conclusion that drinking means alcohol prematurely? I push the thought aside for another time.

More importantly, I need to find an opening to mention I don’t drink, you know, just so we’re clear, in case we hang out in the future. I like to let people down early and get it out of the way. Telling people I don’t drink always feels like I’m disappointing them. It seems I go from totally relatable to maybe we don’t have much in common, from one side of this comment to the other. I see now that this was often likely in my head, but at this stage in my sobriety, I still think I can read minds.

When I bring up my quitting, her response feels very accepting. We even talked of her newly instated rule of not drinking on weeknights. I ignore the ping of shame due to my inability to do that at any point in my time as a drinker and feel my shoulders drop as I relax into our conversations. Overall, this Halloween is turning out way better than I thought. That is, all the way until I see what's up ahead.

There, in front of the next house, is a table set up with candy for kids and shots for the parents, and the culture I was dreading emerges in full force. Parents are congregated around the booze table, now barely watching their children, and the jokes about needing alcohol to parent come out as the camaraderie of alcohol abuse unites the neighbourhood drinkers.

Of course, my rejection of this lovely gesture does not go unnoticed. People say, “Oh, come on, it’s just one.” “you’re no fun.”, “It’s Halloween!” And I want to scream, “I’m fucking sober you assholes!” But instead I stand there speechless as my walking partner quickly betrays her only weekends rule and falls to the pressure.

I can’t blame her.

Like someone popped my balloon, I feel deflated and suddenly very aware of how cold I am.

The mom I was talking to looks back at me with kind “I’m sorry” eyes. I smile at her and shrug as if to say “that's life.” My daughter, with her impeccable timing, chimes in to say, “Mom. I’m sick of walking. Can we go home?” I take her hand and happily retreat, thanking everyone profusely.

With my slushing shoes and my daughter's small, chilled hand in mine, I walk away and sigh in relief. We look at each other with a smile, both exhausted for different reasons and feeling quite pleased with ourselves. Her with her bag of loot and me with my pride. I think to myself, this is all part of the practice, going from uncomfortable to comfortable and back again.

As Halloween approaches this year, I feel entirely different about it. I don’t overthink things the way I did last year. It all seems silly now, fussing over some liquid in a cup. If someone offers me a shot, I’m going to say, “I don’t drink.” Loudly, proudly, sternly. I won’t worry about what they think or may assume from the statement. And if they say I’m no fun, I will laugh, smile and keep going.

Because they don’t know me.

Which makes their statement absolutely nothing about me and entirely about them.