New Year, Still here

We’ve made it. We’ve crossed the invisible line into the new year. I had nothing planned for it and didn’t intend to stay up, but the explosion of fireworks felt like they were almost on our doorstep and so impossible to ignore.

As I listened to the rat-a-tat-tat of fireworks exploding like gunfire for what felt like ages but can only have been minutes it made me reflect on the time of year. I feel I have so much to say about it and also very little as my sleep-deprived brain struggles to think coherently. Of course there was a new baby this year. A new set of financial pressures, and a new me in some ways. No longer am I clinging onto an old pre-child life. This time I’m fully on the other side. 

Lots to celebrate then? In fact we did nothing last night. At first it felt a little strange. We’d always done something. Not necessarily a party but dinner with friends or going out. In fact, I think the only time I hadn’t done something was during the pandemic. But, when I settled into the idea, I realised I felt liberated. Not for us the stress of hosting and trying to make sure people were having a good time. Not for us either the hassle of moving my gang of small people around and hoping I could get them down to sleep at someone else’s house so I could enjoy hanging out with the adults. No spending money!

Suddenly I wondered why I’d not done it sooner. When I was single, I felt like I couldn’t possibly stay in even if the chances of a fun night weren’t guaranteed. And what a fucking damp squib the evening often was! But maybe that’s because there was too much resting on it. The pressure to have a fucking good time. The hope of meeting someone really great – maybe the love of your life like they do in the films?! The promise of something new and different on such an important night. 

Then there are the resolutions. I made them every year either publicly or

privately. Swearing each time that ‘this was the year I would indeed make them happen’. I’d vow to be fitter, funnier, a better friend. Most importantly I’d be different and yet, wherever you go there you are as the expression goes.

Why is that? I think there’s something about resolutions that feels too big, too lofty. To be resolute doesn’t leave much room to err. Maybe I’ve been setting myself up to fail? Maybe I should know by now that making a promise to be different does not mean it will happen quickly or sustainably. Changing oneself is generally an excruciatingly slow process. 

I then read something about intention, and it struck a chord. It talked of setting them instead of resolutions. Intentions being a more hopeful goal with room to get there in your own time, which felt softer and more realistic. It was in an article about the winter solstice and how you set many intentions but end up focusing on one.

With that in mind, maybe my intention should be to try and enjoy the time I have left with my baby before I go back to work. And when I do eventually go back to just get my head around my job again. Maybe that’s enough for now.