Shawn and I camped out on the couch last night and watched Serenity (awesome). I was brushing my teeth and checking my email one last time for the night when I heard booms and whistles. I glanced out the window looking for the backfiring car. Who would be making that kind of noise at – I looked at the time on my laptop – 12:00 at night? Oh, right. New Years. I spit out my toothpaste and padded down the hall to the office to give my husband a kiss. So that’s how I rang in the new year, with slight bewilderment and belated recognition. If that’s any indication, then this year is likely to be a lot like the last couple.
As I lay in bed later, listening to the ruckus in the street, I tried not to be irritated. It’s a New Year, after all. A fresh start. On the other hand, my kid was sleeping and I really didn’t want that state of affairs to change. I was tempted to herald the coming of a new beginning by flying out the door and bitching out my neighborhood. Ben jumped up on the bed with fur bristled, facing the window even though the curtains were drawn shut. I gave him a soothing pat. Laying there with my eyes closed against the noise of the neighbors’ fireworks, I could almost mistake the booms and the yells for a worse state of affairs. It made me wonder what mothers in dangerous corners of the world say to sooth their children when they hear bombs and screams in the street. What do you say when it’s really not going to be okay? I pray I never have to find out. I had the luxury of pulling the covers close and throwing my arm around the mostly indignant cat.
So here we are, draped in fog on a brand new day. I don’t go in much for New Year’s Resolutions. Still, I have some things I want to get to in the not so distant future and a year is as good a unit of measure as any other. 525600 minutes, and all that.
I want to try my hand at spinning this year. I think I’ll finish that infernal Leaves Sweater that I’ve frogged back to nothingness and re-hooked up half way. I’d like to knit a pair of socks.
I’ve given up on ballet resolutions all together. Saying, “This year I’m going to nail triple pirouettes,” just doesn’t work. Saying, “This year I’m going to make a conscious effort to keep my shoulders and my hips on the same plane of existence,” is more useful. Except take out that part that says “this year” and replace it with “this decade” or “this lifetime” and you’ll be closer to the truth. I think I’ll go with, “This year I’m going to dance as much as I can get away with and have as much fun as possible while I do it,” and leave it at that.
Resolutions in motherhood are equally inconsequential. To humor yourself that it’s your calendar that moves this person through life into functional adulthood is ludicrous to the point of stupidity. Still, we have some strides to make in the areas of reading and potty training around here and the next few steps as much in my court as Luke’s, so that’s on the menu.
The Crow? Good god, don’t ask. The same flight path, really. Boost submissions, boost subscriptions, pray that no more bookstores go out of business and tank us completely. The glory of dangling by the bottom of a thread and making no money is that you have nowhere to go but up.
I suppose I could speculate on jobs and politics and all that, but that sounds a little too proactive for this overcast Thursday morning. At least I started this tour around the sun without a hangover; that’s a point in my favor.
To-do lists for the day are easier to cope with than those for the year. I’ve got a bird bath to get settled in the backyard and lettuce to plant. There’s a scarf that needs knitting and I have a website to build. There are Christmas cookies to eat and an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer to get to this afternoon. I like little hurdles.
Carving the path too far out in front of you keeps your eyes trained on the floor and not what’s going on around you. As my ballet teacher says, if you keep looking at it you’re going to end up on it. Pull up, raise your chin, dance from your heart, and try not to let everyone know that you’re counting the beats. That’s the best advice I have for turning the page of new calendar.
Cheers.