I’m not going to lie: 2017 was a crap year. For lots of reasons. And beyond the political landscape or potential nuclear war.
I’ve been waiting for 2018 for months now, hoping the mundane move from 11:59 p.m. to midnight — it happens every day — would be magical this time around, that everything was going to get suddenly better. My job wasn’t going to be so stressful, I’d be 10 pounds lighter, I would have more hours in the day to get everything done, a nanny-chef-stylist was going to show up on my doorstep and say she wants an unpaid internship. And she looooooves vacuuming and folding laundry.
Of course, nothing happened at that highly anticipated p.m.-a.m. changeover except my dogs shivered under mounds of blankets as half the neighborhood shot off illegal aerials and strings of firecrackers to ward off evil and ring in the new year.
I was in bed, holding onto a distressed Indy and watching our baby (via monitor) sleep happily in his crib, lulled by the sound machine in his room set to crashing waves and enjoying the only air-conditioned room in the house.
Every year since I can remember, I’ve come up with resolutions to change my life, thinking that small changes would snowball into big ones, and suddenly, come summertime, everything would be different. I’d be happier, less stressed, more fulfilled. I’d be an expert in whatever new hobby I had planned to take up or ready for the marathon I sign up for every year.
I would spend New Year’s Eve frantically cleaning the house — it’s hardwired into my DNA — and getting ready to usher in the next year with sparkling floors, clean bed sheets and shaved legs. I would journal every eve, recapping the year and making promises to be more organized, be more mindful, be more selfish, be more compassionate, just be a better person. Because who I was at the time was never enough.
This year, though, has been a blur. With learning how to take care of a newborn to transitioning back to a pretty demanding job, I barely have time to floss my teeth, let alone sit on the couch with a journal and contemplate a better life.
It’s easy to get lost in the web of social media, feeling like everyone else is traveling or hiking or surfing or living a life I’ve had to put on hold. And while I don’t regret our choice to be parents and love every moment we have with Landon, it’s hard not to imagine a more carefree exisitence, one where I can just jump on a plane and be in a different time zone, one where I didn’t have to worry so much about money because I was the only person I needed to support, one where I could surf or hike whenever I wanted, one that didn’t involve a carseat, stroller and pack-and-play.
I briefly thought about writing down a few New Year’s resolutions — then, of course, quickly forgot about it when I heard the baby babbling in his crib. Sure, I’d love to set some goals, make some positive changes to get me back on track. But maybe now isn’t the time.
It’s hard for me to wait; patience is not one of my virtues. But I know that soon enough, Landon will be old enough to take on adventures, whether it’s fishing in New Zealand or surfing in Waikīkī. I’ll have time to work out more, write more, read more, cook more, blog more. But right now, I’m just trying to stay above water. And that’s OK.
I’m not Super Mom. I’m not Super Anything. But right now, I’ve got a Super Kid that needs my love, attention and baked goods. So instead of worrying about my goals this year, I’m just going to breathe… exhale… and remember that I got this.
And there’s always next year.
Happy New Year, everyone!