A new, New Year’s resolution

LET’S TALK RESOLUTIONS.

As in, those promises you made yourself a month ago that, if you’re anything like the pre-2023 version of me, you’ve already long forgotten about.

In the past I’ve made all sorts of fickle vows to myself. There are the usual suspects:

1. Exercise more (I really would like my abs back)

2. Eat healthier (That one lasted through about three kale smoothies)

3. Learn a new language (Fluent in Pig Latin since age 3, check!)

Then there are the more you-specific types:

1. Stop biting your nails (Oh hey, maybe if my kids would stop mainlining anxiety into my bloodstream every second of the day, I would)

2. Plan more camping trips (See above)

3. Save up a bajillion dollars and cruise around the world (Okay, this one seems doable)

Let’s stop right there because we all know that we never actually do any of these things. Back on the list they go, year after year, and by February 1st here we are again, the same old us we were the year before, flaws and all.

But as much as I love a good bit of sarcasm, this story has a serious side. The truth is, I’m doing pretty darn well on my resolutions this year, but it took a good dose of perspective to get me there.

It all started on a Friday afternoon in December, at the start of the holiday season when I, along with so many parents around the country, was busy decking the halls, shopping for gifts, and scheming up activities to keep the kiddos busy over break. I had just sat down to browse my phone when an email appeared in my inbox that hit me like a freight train. A young mother in our circle had passed away unexpectedly in the middle of the night, leaving her husband and two small boys without their wife and mother.

Then, just days later, I found out through social media that a young boy in our town, the same age as my eldest son, had been hospitalized due to complications from a common illness, and was fighting for his life. His family would spend the days, and then weeks that followed as the holidays came and went, at his bedside praying for one more hour with their child.

As these stories tugged at my mom heart, I felt desperate to do something. So I did the only thing I could, and I held my own children. I hugged them, really hugged them, and I didn’t let go for what felt like ages. The next day I did the same thing, and every day through the end of 2022, as I read the updates on the young boy as he won one small battle after another, I cried tears of gratitude, and I hugged my kids.

This year, my resolutions were obvious. Patience. Positivity. Presence. Peace.

When I feel the urge to snap at one of my teens for back talking, I’ll think of that boy fighting for his life, and I’ll choose patience. When I feel like being a mom to teens is the hardest job there is, I’ll choose positivity, because my children are safe and my family’s together. When I think sneaking in 10 minutes of work is more important than listening to my preschooler tell me about his day at school, I’ll think about those young boys who will never again get the chance, and I’ll choose presence. And through these small, everyday changes, I’ll choose peace.

These words are written in lipstick on my bathroom mirror. They’re scrawled in dry erase marker across the top of my car windshield. They’re on my mind, each second of every day.

They’re too important to forget. This year I won’t fail at my resolutions. I’ll remember that life is fleeting, time is the most precious gift we have, and being a parent is the greatest blessing that exists.