Five Days In

The etymology of the word resolution is from the Latin resolvere, which means to loosen or release. Hold up. That's kind of the opposite of what New Year's resolutions are attempting to accomplish, right? So many traditional ones are restrictive, limiting, retributive for last year's errs.

The past twelve months were good to me. We welcomed a dimple-cheeked little girl into our chaos in February, traveled just enough, argued less, played more, and spent the final weeks enveloped by snow and family. My mental health only minimally veered into the red.

I'm too spent (read: lazy) to give you pre-meditated advice for the next twelve, so I'll direct you elsewhere. Here are four 2014 launches that aren't emotional flagellation, vastly different from one another but all dead-on.

Scrounging For It

Exhibit A

A fellow blogger and mom recently asked me where I find the time to blog, in between wiping, feeding, cooking, bathing, cleaning, comforting, cycling. At the time, I didn't really even have an answer, probably because I was too tired to properly transmit the data from my brain to my mouth and form it into something coherent.

Here's the truth. I don't.

Greetings from the Icebox

The mister and I gave ourselves the best present: a little more than 24 hours away (from our darling but thoroughly exhausting children). Destination: Milwaukee, nearest city to both our childhoods. A night in the Iron Horse Hotel and two half-days spent strolling and eating and talking, or not talking. The best pastrami in town. A quiet breakfast. A movie in bed. A textile-lust party at the new Pendleton flagship store. Hat perusing. Everything by choice, everything done at a speed of our choosing.

Not in My House, or a House in a House

Every parent has guiding principles that make the messy task of leading another human through the world more manageable, purposeful. Some are (relatively) non-negotiable. Although I've found many of my beliefs have changed as I go, one of the few that has remained is this: I will not live in a daycare. Our main play area, the living room, gets restored to a near-adult living space almost every night. We own a stash of toys manageably sized enough to be put away, I refuse to have giant play equipment littering our rooms, and many times the kids play with what's at hand. Example: while I type, Frankie is tinkering with a six-inch USB cord and the tag on my leg warmers. (I've found babies to be mostly uninterested in baby toys; everyday things like keys and ID cards are much preferred.)

Despite my golden rule, I struggled with a desire to construct a playhouse, a space too small for adults to invade, a place where normal rules about messes and markers and stickers didn't apply.

Roar.

I'm not going to lie; I had my heart securely glued to the idea of freezing my tail off in the Arctic behind a pack of lionhearted dogs; finding out I didn't win the jury-selected number two spot was pretty disheartening. But, as is necessary, after pity partying for a couple days I began plotting next year's entry and moved on, albeit grudgingly.