Because It's True

Lacking Resolve

I dislike resolutions, mainly because I fail to follow through on them. I am a terrible resolver. Maybe it can be tied to some underlying psychological issue with keeping promises to myself, but that’s a discussion for another time.

Like most people, my resolutions of the past have revolved around weight loss/being healthier. And this, the year I refuse to make a resolution; this, the Year of Baby Weight, I will not give in. I will not promise myself to lose any number of pounds or fit into any tiny jeans size. 

What I will do – not resolve to do, mind you – is take strides to be a better person/parent/partner by working on some not-so-great things I’ve identified about myself over the last 30-ish years. 

Number One: Work on my patience. See, I have none. Zero. I hate waiting for anything and everything to happen of its own accord. I wish I could blame technology (high speed internet, I’m looking at you), but I cannot. I’ve been this way my whole life. I’m not sure where it comes from since I’m fairly certain that my mother never made me instant oatmeal or wasted money on one hour photos. (We didn’t even have a microwave until I was in high school!)  If there is one thing that I most likely need as a new parent involved in the home remodel from Hell, it’s patience. All of it. In the world. But I’d settle for a thimbleful. 

Number Two: Clean up my language. Despite having a pretty extensive vocabulary thanks to years of reading, writing and tutelage in the various subsects of English literature, most of the time the only expressive words I can muster are of the four letter variety. And I have decided that I’m better than that, and Little Ears in my house deserve better also. So bring on the ships, fudges and dangs. 

Number Two Point Five: Stop saying “like” at inappropriate times as filler when I don’t know what else to  say.  “Like” is a verbal crutch that I must cast aside in order to properly stand on my own two eloquently phrased, conversational legs. “Like” is lazy. And while my self-proclaimed totem animal is the sloth, I will not let my mouthbrain fall victim to my body’s lethargy. Boom.  

Number Three: I will be grateful. There are quite a number of fantastic things in my life that I hardly ever notice. Don’t get me wrong, I recognize daily that my husband and little boy are astounding, one of a kind blessings, but things like, oh, running water and reliable transportation often get the shaft. Acknowledging and appreciating the every day, mundane magic that allows me to lead this cushy, first world life of mine will go a long way in making me a better human. I think I hope.

The Boss and I

I loves me some Christmas music. Every year I look forward to the day when the local soft rock station transforms into The Christmas Station. The past few years it has happened pre-Thanksgiving, and I’ve been totally fine with that. I am a proud Christmas dork to the core.

So while I’ll happily (giddily, even) sing along to pretty much any carol (and in some cases, I will make up words when it’s some new-fangled Christmas song because I’m that dedicated), there is one that makes me change the channel every single time:

I was five years old during the Christmas of 1985, and this version – the Springsteen version – of Santa Claus is Coming to Town was mega popular. My parents, being the cool ex-hippies they were, loved it. And because they loved it, they sang it. And they sang it to me.

Now, you may be thinking, Wow! What uber-cool, hip and not at all embarrassing parents those parents must have been. And in some parallel universe where these super cool, uber-hip parents sang this, the Boss’s Christmas carol, to their only begotten offspring while dancing Molly Ringwald-style in front of a bright neon Christmas tree, they were probably the cat’s pajamas. (In that universe, I’m sure this family’s Christmas card featured everyone in matching, Judd Nelson-style jean jackets, too.)

But, no. These were my parents, in this universe. And they chose to sing this, the coolest of the coolest renditions of any Christmas song EVER, only when I was in the middle of some spectacular tantrum. With special emphasis placed on the you’d better not pout bit.   

Shockingly, this would only enrage me further, fueling many an ever-brattier outburst only to be met with more cheerful reminders that the omnipresent Claus was watching  and coming. As you can imagine, it became a never ending cycle of self-righteous, amused singing and maniacal, red faced screaming.

(And that’s what Christmas means to me, my love.)

I hope I get to meet Bruce some day so that I can thank him in person for the memories. It's a wonder I even celebrate Christmas at all.