Each December, despite the lack of sleep, lack of healthy eating habits and lack of structure my family falls prey to over holiday break (on several nights I had to aggressively negotiate Aidy down from her requested “7 million” post-dinner gummy bears to five, which she put in her mouth all at the same time) I get really excited. Really motivated for the year ahead.

Certain years I’ve been more disenchanted by the idea of “resolutions,” thinking things like, “Well, if you’re going to make resolutions, why wait until January 1st? Start working towards them now, don’t wait a second longer!” and other years, like this one, I’m gung-ho, thinking things like, “Of course January 1st is the best time to make resolutions! It’s the beginning of the new year!”

So, on the morning of January 1, I decided to write some ideas down. Resolutions sort of, but I didn’t hold myself to any particular formulation or specificity. I wrote down that I wanted to do more one-on-one things with the kids, and that I wanted to decide on the next steps in my career. That I wanted to read more, and also that I wanted “more bravery, less worrying” in my life. I know vague goals are often left unrealized but I didn’t care. It felt good to start the year this way, especially because I’d spent the night before with a sick child, missing the party with friends we’d been looking forward to for months. It was a bummer, although my calm evening watching “Harry Potter” movies with Gabe was one of those “no place I’d rather be” experiences (I mean, both of us would have rather been at the party, but you get what I’m saying).

2020 was off to a proactive start.

Today, however - back in the swing of school and schedules and projects I didn’t work on over the break - I became very stressed out. It was a very particular kind of stress, the type that manifests in your body. The kind that, I’ve learned, can result in middle-of-the-night panic if left unchecked.

I didn’t love it, but at least I could diagnose it: all I was feeling was the sense of being overwhelmed by the responsibilites I’d had the privlege to ignore during our vacation. No big deal. But still, a feeling that erased the high I’d achieved writing all of those noble resolutions with my sidekick (Gabe deemed them “good” which I took as high praise) just one day prior.

But a feeling I could conquer, I decided, if I worked through it. If I wrote down all the pressing things I had to do on a piece of paper, then began making my way through them despite the feeling. It would cease in time, but trying to conquer it in one fell swoop wasn’t going to work. I was just going to have to feel uncomfortable and annoyed for awhile. I was going to have to put my fingers on the keyboard and type paragraphs that turn into stories without feeling inspired. Not to mention J and I were going to have to hide all the gummies from Aidy and wrestle my children back into some sort of semblance of regular bedtimes.

There was, of course, one thing that would make it all a little more tolerable. And that’s writing about it here.

I’ve been writing on this blog since I was in my mid-twenties. Taking the drudgery and hilarity and stresses and sadness from my unremarkable daily life and typing it up for all to read. And the crazy thing, the really quite crazy thing, is that people, for some reason, read it.

Not you know, throngs of people or anything. But you guys. You read it. And you commented with your own stories. You told me you like it when I wrote about so-and-so or this or that. You made me feel like sharing the minor and major moments that make up my life (that make up all our lives) wasn’t just a means for me to talk endlessly about myself - even though it is kind of that, isn’t it? - but a way for us to connect.

And even though I always feel much better when I talk through my feelings with others (J might interupt here that sometimes what I do is “dump my feelings on others” without their consent) I think that the sense of connection is what I’m after. That’s what makes it not only more tolerable, but truly wonderful.

It’s what makes these not-funny-or-meaningful-in-the-moment-but-will-be-funny-or-meaningful-a-few-months-from-now incidents much easier to digest, and more amusing to contemplate. Having you along for the ride is the key.

Silently praying that my child doesn’t actually choke on gummy bears because the hospital is not super close to my mom’s house. Quietly waking up my exhausted son just before midnight so we could count down to one with the ball drop, because I promised I would. Missing the party, trying to be a good mother and sitting in a coffee shop on January 2 thinking that if I get one more email detailing a duty I needed to tend to I was going to quit (all of it, quit all of it).

Deciding, instead, to quit none of it and tell you about it here.

This - this mundane, on-a-whim, colloquial type of storytelling I do - is the thing I like best. But I wouldn’t like it nearly as much if you weren’t there on the other side of this keyboard.

This is my last of three “grateful” posts and the most important one, considering the audience. I am grateful for you.

Thanks for making me feel like a real writer. For listening and telling me your own tales. For reminding me we are all in this together.

Happy 2020. I’ll talk to you soon.