New Years Resolutions, MoM Style

I have sat staring at this accusingly blank page for at least a half hour now. I have filled it several times with intellectual and emotional vomit only to clear the self-indulgent mumblings and welcome the blank page again. Honestly, if I were to choose between the two, I would prefer the former.

I have juggled several ideas for today's musing, but my mood has vacillated wildly from minute to minute and this was intended to be a humorously empowering series of rantings rather than a melancholy collection of crap. So, I will honor the holiday with the public declarations of my parental resolutions for the new year.

At the end of July two years ago, I suffered a crippling loss in my life. Perhaps I should expound on the dynamic of my family. I was the mother of five beautiful children, but the concentration of gender-specific hormones is unevenly distributed. Our house oozes, drips, and as I am reminded every time I clean the boys' rooms, wreaks of testosterone. The one nugget of hope in this mass of manhood is an ultra-concentrated pocket of glittery-pink-jewel-crusted estrogen wedged squarely in the middle. So, when we decided to welcome another child to our hoard, I began the scientific research to ensure a slight evening of the teams. We schemed, charted, plotted, and conspired to tip the biological scales in our favor. Each month at my ultrasounds, I honed my eyes with superhuman focus in the hopes that I would not see “the stem on the apple.” I should have been more worried about something else.

At our anxiously-awaited “big” ultrasound appointment, our focus changed from what anatomy was present to the heartbeat that wasn't. My misguided quest for the holy grail of girlhood seemed pretty superfluous. We returned home to pack our hospital bags and prepare for the most miserable delivery possible, one that didn't end with hope and possibility, but with dark promise. To add a sprinkling of insult to our heaping helping of injury, the child was indeed our little girl. We named her Brynn.

So many thoughts have haunted my sleepless nights after that horrible afternoon in late July and each doubting, loathing, questioning one has revisited me as my December due date passed, as I donated the few Christmas presents that I had collected in anticipation, and as we have celebrated/mourned each passing nonexistent birthday. But, being a spiritual person who believes in a heaven/hell-based judgement system, I have wondered if perhaps my home was unworthy and unready for our Brynn. I have begun to wish that I could channel a little more June Cleaver and a little less Sybil. With this goal buried firmly in my brain, I begin my list of aspirations.

First, I will always take deep, cleansing breaths before entering the bathroom. This is not to prepare for the toxic fumes that are often brewed in this particular room. I acknowledge that many of my moments of raging parental lunacy are spawned by some disaster in the bathroom. The sudsy soaps, lavish lotions, tantalizing minty toothpastes, flirtatious first aid supplies, adrenaline-inducing hygiene instruments all combined with the promise of unlimited water bubbling forth are an intoxicating siren song to any adolescent. Being the mother of five normal boys, I have had to develop the useful skill of hovering above the commode in order to use the facilities. So, for the sake of my sanity and household peace, I resolve to look past the toilet paper wads cemented to the ceiling, the mascara mural on the wall and the tight white underpants hanging from the shower head.

Second, I resolve to stop cooking. (I have not yet reconciled this in light of resolutions to follow, so don't point out the glaring discrepancies.) This falls closely in line with the bathroom resolution. If I never entered the kitchen to produce meals, I would never face my childrens' culinary catastrophes. One alarmingly early morning in a scorching hot desert summer, I awoke to the blissful giggles of my two oldest sons in the family kitchen. Not wanting to miss the moment of childhood joy, I snuck into my dining room to observe a winter wonderland. The ceramic tile, declared by many institutions to be a lethal weapon if properly lubricated, was covered in a shining coating of butter and then lightly dusted with dehydrated potato “snow.” Rather than embracing my inner June Cleaver, my evil alter-ego boisterously demanded an explanation. With childlike invention that brings a smile to my face, admittedly two years after the incident, the two boys had decided that they missed winter fun and had created a “butter skating” rink and were having snowball fights and preparing to construct a snowman. I look back and wish that rather than grumbling under my breath as I cleaned, I had broke out the gravy.

Third, I commit to scientifically test the consumption capacity of the human child. I question the assumption that children are picky eaters. I have yet to meet anything that holds still long enough that my children will not consume. We dine with friends and they will ask the common question, “What will your children eat?” The answer is EVERYTHING! I do not mean that in the conventional sense which limits their eating to actual food-related items. I mean, they eat EVERYTHING! I would be doing the scientific world a favor by actually feeding my children till they begged me to stop, though I am dubious that this will ever happen. But, I do not want to fill my precious children full of calorie-cholesterol-packed garbage. I resolve to find my inner-June and create healthy snacks in this scientific pursuit, but suppress my inner-Sybil's desire to stuff it in their plump little cheeks.

Fourth, I will buy a new house rake, shovel, and fire hose. Being a homeschool mom, I anticipate those few weeks of school breaks that most parents loathe and beg to end. During these weeks, I embrace my diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and bleach the world. This winter break, I bought a steam cleaner and began scalding my castle with bacteria-banning tools and attachments. My living room, which is the gathering place for our whole tribe, was among the last to be baptized by fire. I pulled out every couch, cleaned every shelf, wiped every movie and book and alphabetized and categorized our libraries. Then, like one of those overrated movie shots where the action is filmed in one-take, I walked to the kitchen to begin lunch preparation and then back to my newly-cleansed living room to ask for jelly preferences and.... an air raid had hit the living room floor. I think my inner-June would be satiated by raking the offensive objects into a neat pile, shoveling them in one graceful swing (still smiling) into a garbage bag, and my inner-Sybil would complete the process with a high-pressure wash.

Fifth, I will pet every matted, dirty, stinky ball of fur in our zoo of a home. We live at the end of a very long block and just before a seemingly eternal field of corn and wheat, therefore, we are the safe haven of all lost and misfit pets. We have a stock “Lost” poster ready to print at a moment's notice. But when advertising fails, we take them in and we love them, but all too often I am sourly cursing their infestation of my counters, the dog scavenging the garbage after our rib dinner, or the infernal cat hair on my carefully designed outfit. Recently, we lost one of our beloved misfits to a horrible accident. He was neurotic, he was odd, he was sweet and cuddly, he was always on my counters, and he was the perfect match for our neurotic, odd and cuddly family. This year, cat hair is the new neutral and I will wear it like a supermodel.

Lastly, I will savor every stage of development for the fleeting gift that it is. I will revel in the beauty of my little ones as much when they are awake as when they are innocently sleeping. (I know, not at all sarcastic or humorous, but apt.) There are too many days that my evil alter-ego has monopolized my day. Rather than catching those moments to teach, to laugh, and to learn, I have nearly sucked the souls from my children like some winged she-beast from Greek mythology. I too often sink with exhaustion onto my couch, usually with a child in each arm, and watch them sleep sweetly rather than the television program to which I am tuned. I will play board games, even if the red-nosed operation guy is minus a broken heart, it never stopped the tin man. I will whimperingly comb out more knots in my waist-length hair because my children want to practice their french braids. I will kiss the boo boos, whether my repeated advise would have prevented them or not. I will sleepover in sleeping bags to catch the closet monsters. I will disregard the bedtimes just a little to read that extra book. I will save my quarters for the joyful purchase of stale grocery store gumballs.

So many times in the last year, I have neglected to take my children somewhere and laughingly made excuses about the structural integrity of the places we visit or the formation of a coupe to overthrow the government, which is a real possibility, so beware. This year I am going to acknowledge the marvelous and brilliant children that I have. I am going to take them anywhere, make as many memories as I can with them. I make this resolution in hopes that my children will balance the national deficit and spur architects to greater heights of achievement.