I'm not the sort of person who usually makes New Year resolutions, to be honest. If I do, I generally try to think of something philosophical or uplifting, like being nicer and less potty-mouthed when I'm behind a car wheel, or being (marginally) more patient with fractious offspring in Trying Moments, but these things never last much past January. A brief spasm of remorse might hit me in late spring, but like most resolutions when viewed from a distance of time, the guilt never lasts long: too many other things are claiming my attention by then.
The garden, for one thing.
|The back yard in December|
Anyhow, this week I had a bit of a revelation about why my New Year's resolutions never come to much. It's this: I don't make the right sorts of resolutions. My resolutions are predicated on certain failure. I need to focus on resolutions that have a higher success rate.
Take swearing while driving - a useless resolution if there ever were one. Swearing is the single most satisfying method to cope with the stupid behaviours and idiotic driving patterns of one's fellow drivers. Not swearing, by contrast, would be hazardous to my health, I feel quite sure. Besides, it gives the kids a useful compendium of flowery yet articulate expressions from which to draw once they're over 18, the age at which I've deemed it Okay To Swear In Mum's Hearing (although I reserve the right to cringe, wince, or roll my eyes).
Then there was that resolution about being Nice Mummy, as opposed to Mostly Nice But Sometimes Very Shouty Mummy. To illustrate how extra futile that one was, I'll tell you a story: once upon a time Eldest Son was in a rush, and got himself into a state of extra special, no good, simply terrible irrationality while trying to simultaneously burn a CD (for a gift he was very late giving), study for a chemistry test (which was the next day), and write up a 4-H report, all the while finishing his supper. He was doing all this in the Family Room (where we never eat meals, where I have banned all food and drink, and where we have some expensive electronic items on tables). If this were a game of Clue, we'd have the Kid in the Family Room with the Food, trying to kill the Computer, because that's what happened. The moment, such as it was, ended with butter smeared all over my optical drive, many poorly burned CDs, and some choice expressions uttered in the heat of the moment. Another epic failure of resolution. I know, I know, there are contexts and there are contexts, but that scenario made me realize the pointlessness of being someone I'm not, just for the heck of a New Year Resolution.
This week, as I said, I had a revelation. It centred around my new socks. See photo below. These are my new Highly Favoured Household Footwear. I call them sockette thingies. I love wearing my sockette thingies, but they're white, and white is not a colour that lasts long in this house. After a few days of wear that lovely white was gray and brown (and sometimes black). Washing helped a little, but only a little. I resorted to soaking them overnight in Pink Solution before washing, which amused Husband greatly: "What are these things doing in this bucket?" he asked me, in between the odd snicker. "That's not like you."
No, it isn't. I hate doing laundry. Like bed-making, it seems to exist simply so I can do it over and over again. I feel as though I'm in an Escher sketch, doing the Munch Man scream.
Anyhow, it occurred to me that the reason my sockette thingies were so dirty was because of these lovely wood floors. In addition to rarely making a bed, or doing laundry, I also never mop these floors. I do know people who mop, but let's just say that I'm not one of them.
Never mind, I thought, it will be good for my sockette thingies. Finally, a resolution worth making. I'll keep you posted on the success rate of this one.