Early last December we celebrated my eldest daughter’s fourth birthday with family and friends. The celebration was a typical toddler fête; children running around, eyes and smiles wide, loaded up on sugary treats from a piñata broken in record time. It was a group effort taking turns looking after my youngest daughter, who is nearly two. Understandably, in the joyous chaos, no one paid particular attention to what Ms. Nearly Two was eating. After she refused her dinner, we tallied up the treats she’d eaten and were surprised she even went to sleep.
Around 11:00 p.m. we awoke to the sound of our “sugar baby” coughing and crying. When we turned on the lights, we discovered she had gotten sick and was quite a mess in her crib. She was crying quite inconsolably now. I picked her up and held her close to me, attempting to quiet her cries while my husband quietly dry-heaved behind us. That’s when it hit me; I was there. I was sober, and I was there for her when she needed me.
For the next few moments I just held her, both of us now covered in partially digested birthday party treats, and thanked my Higher Power for the absolute beauty of that very moment. I likely would’ve stayed longer in this blissful moment had my husband not interrupted (amid gags) with the suggestion of a shower.
These moments have become the knots on the rope of my sobriety. Each little unexpected miracle becoming something I can grab onto, and cling to, when doing the next right thing seems too much for me. At just over six months sober, I’d say my rope is pretty knotty. May the rope you climb through your sobriety be plenteous with knots as well.