My step-daughter celebrated her 18th birthday with us this past weekend. 18, with her life unfolding - a summer road trip ahead, with college in the fall. I've known her since she was 9, one of those gifts of recovery that I didn't even know I wanted.

One aspect of watching her grow up has been reflecting on my own life, and the various places where my experience diverges so greatly. It has been interesting to watch her and think, "Oh... so this is what well-adjusted looks like." Needless to say, she's not drinking nearly to pass-out stage before she goes up to the park to meet her friends, nor is she jumping off of the roof at night to do the same, and we're not cleaning hidden cigarette butts from her room. My only activity in high school was "park," and walking up and down Fremont to my cousin's house. It's been a joy to watch her excel and enjoy so  much - soccer, tennis, theater, singing; a sweet and well rounded young lady.

And on this occasion of her 18th'd birthday, I think back to my own celebrations. I don't remember 18, but what I imagine is that drinking was involved, because drinking was involved in just about everything - birthdays, holidays, weekends, weekdays, sunshine, rain, and everything in between. 21 was anticlimactic, given that I'd been drinking since 15, but it was monumental to apply for my OLCC card and legally buy booze.

My favorite childhood birthday was my 11th, and my twin cousins' 10th, when our moms took us downtown (back when that was a big deal) to the Hilton for lunch and then to the Paramount to watch "The Sound of Music." A near perfect day, as birthdays should be.

Should be, but aren't always. As my alcoholism and addiction progressed, I had a couple of birthdays I'd just as soon forget. My boyfriend and I spent my 29th birthday in an empty restaurant in Italy - he joked that he'd secured the entire place just for me, but all I could think about was missing my family and the usual cousin's celebration. Within a month of coming home from that trip, I was introduced to methamphetamine, and the guy I would become obsessed with - so obsessed with both that I threw away the relationship that I would've said meant the world to me.

During the process of throwing that relationship away, my 30th birthday came up, with a big, fancy hotel party that was supposed to be a surprise, but wasn't. My boyfriend had essentially locked me in the house for the preceding week, in an effort to insure that I'd be clean off meth for the party. What misery. Withdrawal was hard enough when I wanted to clean up. It was hideous when someone else was making me abstain, and to have to enter the ballroom and act surprised while I was ready to die called for an Oscar-worthy performance, and one I didn't pull off very well. At the end of the party, at which I was a total ingrate and spoiled brat, my boyfriend threw up his hands and said, "Go ahead. Go." I remember running to the pay phones to try to find my meth cook lover, and the absolute relief I felt when we connected. I don't remember if I went home that night. I do remember the ugly feelings of shame, rightly earned. It wasn't long after that my boyfriend asked me to move out.

And then I got sober, a few months past my 31st birthday, which, by then, was just another reminder of how dark my life had become. 32, however, was magical. My roommates and treatment buddies, Jay and Ruth, took me to the Pittock Mansion (I'd never been, though spent nearly my whole life in Portland), followed by lunch in a fancy restaurant. That evening, I was supposed to go to some music event with the meth cook, who by then was my boyfriend, who I was intent on saving from his addiction. Annoyingly, about 30 minutes after he picked me up, he realized he'd left the tickets in my kitchen, so back to the house we went. SURPRISE! And I was, though I then recalled how funny it felt when I'd walked into the kitchen and Jay and Ruth stopped talking, not knowing that they'd been rummaging in my purse for my address book. Many of my new, sober friends were there, along with my folks and best friend from my "previous life." It was a beautiful day.

Then, seemingly all of a sudden, I turned 50, coming out of the fog following the ending of a 10 year relationship. I honored the monumental date - half a century! - but also the knowledge that I was going to be ok, no matter what. I was intent on reclaiming my life, and so, celebrated all year: hiking to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back up, running the Paris Marathon, a three-day bicycle event, and that fall, trekking through northern England with my brother. There was a dance party on the actual day, and exhausted from the fabulous year, I realized that if everything is a peak experience, then nothing really is. That year was the beginning of my newfound appreciation of pacing, a lesson I'm still learning.

Over the years, it is my sobriety anniversary that has become the date to celebrate, though I still get excited by my birthdays of "5's" and "0's". But, these days, I'm more excited for my step-daughter, filled with gratitude for our relationship, and for the opportunities to celebrate and to reflect that being part of her life provides.

How do you celebrate, either recovery or "belly button" birthdays? Are there any that stand out in particular, either positive or not so much?