At the 1:50 mark, the late Brian Dennehy tells a story about how a certain “uh-oh” look from his 8-year-old son led to a firm decision to curtail his drinking.
Almost the same thing happened to me, and the instigator was my seven year-old Dylan. It was ’96, and we were making scrambled eggs together and Dylan mishandled the frying pan and it toppled over and onto the floor, eggs and all. And I lost it.
And about 30 or 40 seconds later I said to myself, “You’re not angry over the scrambled eggs on the floor — you’re angry because you’ve had two vodka-and-lemonades and your emotions are unruly.”
That was it — the end of all hard stuff in my system. 24 years ago. But after a couple of years wine crept back into the routine. I wouldn’t embrace sobriety for another 16 years — until 3.20.12.