There is a family story about my favorite uncle wanting me to settle down for bed. He poured the milk out of my bottle and replaced it with a Miller pony. It wasn’t until recently when I began to think about whether there is a genetic reason behind my love of alcohol. The first time I drank (on my own) was when I was 12. It was the summer I started eighth grade. I sneaked a Private Stock beer each day after school from my great-grandfather’s stash. I’m sure he noticed, but he never said anything. He probably thought it was one of my older sisters (which, I suppose, would still have been bad, just not as bad). (I’m still pissed I couldn’t always figure out the riddles inside the bottle cap!) Over the years I’ve gone on pregnancy-induced drinking hiatuses. With the first, when we decided to start trying, I stopped drinking. Wasn’t even a question or in the least bit difficult. With the second, she wasn’t exactly planned, but I know I wasn’t drinking very regularly. The minute I found out, bam! Immediate stop. Then there’s the boy. It was New Year’s Eve. I was on margarita #2 and thought, wow, we’ve been humping like rabbits, better check to see if anything’s cooking before I continue. And sure enough, there was the plus sign. I put the glass down without a second thought. I breastfed all three, the first two for at least a year. I remember having an occasional beer or glass of wine, but I didn’t desire it like I do now. I read, and the doctor confirmed, that the amount of liquor from one glass of wine actually metabolized to the baby is so minute that I shouldn’t worry. But this time around is dramatically different. I’ve been craving liquor. The boy is nine months old. I have had two margaritas and a host of Smirnoff Ice six packs. Mind you I drink one right after feeding him so that my body has time to metabolize it before he’s ready to nurse again (I so can’t pump and dump; if I pump it, somebody’s damn well gonna drink it!) But with each drink is the worsening of the already bad feelings. I am ruining this baby’s brain cells! Every so-called minute bit he’s getting is affecting him somehow! Because I hadn’t had a drink in so long, the first little malted Smirnoff Ice I had had me dizzy. If it does that to me, even if he’s getting only a trace amount, it has to be doing something to him! Everything I put in me is potentially getting to him through my milk and I feel so sad for doing that to him. And yet…I still crave it. At the funeral of my favorite aunt recently, I asked my dad if he wanted something to drink. He said, “aw, baby, they don’t have what I want to drink.” And he laughed. I laughed too, because secretly, I wanted to stop at the liquor store on the way to the repast so I could have a little something w/lunch. But then…then I realized wow, he and each of his brothers has had drinking issues at one time or another. Is it genetic? And am I predisposing this boy to liking spirits too? What it comes down to is this: today is day one of my not drinking until the boy is done nursing. I’m shooting for a year (which would be September). If he goes past that, so be it. But this is my declaration that I will not sip anything until then. The Pepsi, well…one thing at a time.