I think I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with New Year’s resolutions. Love to make them, terrified I’m going to break them.
I know I’m not the only one, in fact I’d theorize that the average woman in my demographic tends to reach toward the unattainable this time of year. And out of necessity, really. Because what’s the fun in a practical resolution? Like, “This year I’m going to floss”, or “This is the year I’m going to find a reasonable and well fitting pair of clogs”. No, I think not.
See, the way I figure it, I’ve got to set my sights high because when I inevitably fall short, I can still feel secure in having made some sort of measurable progress. And the fact is that no one truly expects to keep the damned things anyway, so any degree of success is a victory, let’s be honest.
Let me temper this by saying that I had never made one – not even a single godforsaken, insolent resolution – until I had kids. Never felt the need. Then – hello new guilt ridden world! – for the last four and a half years I’ve had a list longer than Hitler’s.
Pipe dreams include but are not limited to: weight loss, muscle gain, working less, focusing more, kid time, couple time, alone time, making more time, organic gardening, sustainable living, volunteering, yoga practice, driving my kids to practice, taking more home movies, watching more independent films, standing up to the man, and eating less Yogurtland. Oh, and to check the credit card statement. Like, ever. (That last one’s for the sake of my sweet husband.)
And now that the last paragraph is staring back at me like some very expensive antique Oriental rug that the family dog just shit on, it’s easy to see that the only resolutions that really matter in the end are the ones to do with the boys (partly because they’ll love me even if I’m flabby, fat, or lazy). Self care, bleh. Couple care, valiant effort. Kid care, done and done.
So this year I’m going all Superwoman on my resolution’s ass. I’ve got an action plan, thanks to my friend Tom and Zen Four. I’m breaking it down. Into yummy, totally manageable, bite sized pieces. In a nutshell I’ve divided my heroic efforts into three wholesome categories: 1) Dinner – as in cooking it, 2) Dates – for hubby and kiddos alike, and 3) Meditation – because while I know I’m not an island I’d like to feel like I live on one. All the time.
I’d love to know more about your plans, too. And how you manage to keep the dog shit off your antique rug, so to speak. Because if I’ve learned anything in my last four years of half baked resolutions, it’s that strength comes in numbers. Us mamas have to stick together (guttural battle cry), keep an eye on each other’s rugs (no pun intended), and keep our sights set high – kinda like those four inch stilettos you saw the other day. Go ahead, you deserve it.
Happy New Year, everyone.