Lose weight. Try to eat well. Exercise often. Be kind. Take up a new hobby. Learn a language.
When it comes to New Year's resolutions, there's one out there for everyone, isn't there? Well, I don't like to think of myself as one of those "New Year's resolutions" people. Why? Because I, like most humans, fail miserably at trying to change habits simply because it's time to turn the page on a calendar. Besides, it's my firm belief that improving one's life is a constant pursuit. You don't need to see "January" on the top of the page to try new things.
All that said, I did try to set a new goal for myself when this new year started. As if my life weren't crazy enough, I decided to start a blog. I write for a living, but I spend my time at work writing about other people (Or more accurately, about other people's children.)
Rarely do I get the chance to write about myself, my child and the people in my life. I'm not self-absorbed enough to think the world is clamoring to hear about my life, but when I was a teenager, I discovered that putting pen to paper was a good way for me to sort through my feelings. And heaven knows I'm at the point in my life where I could use all the help I can get when it comes to that.
If you're still reading, you've likely caught onto the fact I'm a new mom. (I'm betting the diapers and wipes reference tipped you off). Trying to get used to my newest label has been...interesting. I mean, two years ago at this time, my husband and I were a party of two, happily skating along and enjoying our DINK life. We traveled. We ate out. We slept in. We thought nothing of buying each other extravagant gifts or working late. Life revolved around us (and our cat). And that life was good.
Fast forward to January, 2011. I was five months pregnant and thoroughly enjoying my second trimester. That's an interesting stage...one where you know everything is about to change forever, but you've still got a few months to enjoy your world just as it is. There were countless doctors appointments, a nursery to decorate, a baby shower to attend, and reams of paperwork to fill out. But even with my ever-expanding belly, it was still just the two of us. Sleeping in. Working late. Exercising at odd hours. Traveling. Living it up (Well, living it up as much as a pregnant woman can. Those nine months without soft cheeses, deli meats, hot baths and alcohol were brutal.)
Then came May and everything changed. My husband and I walked into the hospital a party of two...and walked out a party of three. Suddenly, we were entrusted to care for this tiny little human that bore a slight resemblance to neither of us. The moment we pulled up to our house is one I don't think I'll ever forget. Gone was the safety net of the hospital and all its knowledgeable nurses. Now The Boy was completely our responsibility. We had to feed him. We had to change him. We had to try desperately not to break him.
It's been 8 months since The Boy came home. Some days, I can't remember life before him. Other days, I find myself wondering (again) what the hell I've gotten myself into. So that brings me back to another confusing time in my life...my teenage years, when a pen and a piece of paper made everything better.
I may have traded my leather-bound journal for a laptop, but that's alright. As long as I can try to find words to navigate the landmines, I'm pretty sure I'll be okay.