I can’t resist the chance to start a new. I’ll celebrate as many new years as I need to if it means getting a chance to slap a coat of fresh paint on myself. [Ok, I must be tired, because the first time I wrote that sentence it came out like this: “slap on a French coat of pain.” I can’t begin to imagine what I meant by that.]
Here are the five I’m working on at the moment:
1. Yell less. I do, actually — thanks to last year’s resolution. Gone is the Voldemort voice, as well as the paint-peeling-harpy-shriek, but I suppose I really could yell a little less often.Or perhaps I should just continue to be judicious with my yelling — I ought to use it sparingly, but I’d be a moron to give it up.
2. A pal from college enlisted me in a resolution to read more poetry. In fact, we choose a poem to read each day for a month. This is sure to bring swells of calm to my harried existence. Watch this space for an all new me.
3. Buy new pajamas. Honestly, they’ve been to hell and back with me, and at this point they’re nothing short of embarrassing. God forbid I should ever have to leave my house in the middle of the night, or people will really have a reason to start calling me grandma. [Resolution 3.5: Stop worrying about people calling me grandma.]
4. Do a lot more of the three R’s: Run more, [W]rite more, and Resist anything gummy for as long as I can. Crap. I’ve already blown this one… witness empty bag of gummy cola bottles shoved under desk.
5. Do not have a baby. That’s right folks, even though someone keeps sending samples of baby formula to the house [who are you? and why are you messing with our minds???] this should be the first even-numbered year since 2000 that does not see a new addition to the Geller house. Even though M has told me that I can have a sixth, I just need to take another husband to do it, and even though most of the time I’m barely able to keep my head above the whirlpool I live in, please, please, please, keep your newborns away from me for the next few months. Don’t send me pictures of little pink infants swaddled and capped. In fact, go ahead and cross me right off your birth announcement list. The baby is almost fifteen months old, and I am at my most dangerous.
Frankly, you’d think my own kids would act as birth control here. I know for a fact that they do for other couples. I must, when gripped by pregnancy envy, remember that this very morning Fiona looked at me with her giant saucer-like blue-green eyes and dumped an entire cup of chocolate milk everywhere, giving me the worst F-you look known to three year olds. I must remember that Francie melted down because I buttoned her dress wrong, and that the baby wiped snot all over every outfit I wore this week. I must close my eyes and remember that I have two boys, two years apart. Hell, I should just remember all my old blog entries.
If I forget things like this, please take it upon yourselves to remind me.
Thank you, and happy 2012.