It’s a new year. And I still don’t plan on working out.
I do, however, have a few other things I truly hope to accomplish. And not lie to you about. Because that would be a dick move, and alas, I am not equipped for such a dance. Because I only have the woman parts. And I am far too committed now.
And you know the rule, if you write it down and post it for the entire world to see, you are obligated to do at least 63% of it. Ghandi said that. Or my friend Beth when she was drunk.
And I am completely aware this post would have made more sense grouped with all the other appropriately executed Jan. 1 posts. But I suck at those. Because lazy. And pregnant (post to come).
So, I sat down last Tuesday, while all my fellow Cajun homies were back home celebrating the Mardi Gras (and I was left shivering in Amsterdam, absent of all debauchery and good bourbon) and I tried to figure out what the hell to write about. And this is what I came up with. My top 8 goals for the year…
And then I accidentally deleted the entire thing. Because I am the best kind of stupid. And like a stubborn chubby child (shout out to my offspring) I refused to re-write it until today… and now there are only 5 goals… because still lazy and still pregnant (see above).
1) Make more dam friends.
I like people. A lot. Some of my friends say to a fault. One even called me the “friend collector” — a term that sounds a bit sketchy and loads of fun at the same time. And all of this is most likely a result of the constant moving around I endured as a child — ten different schools by college. And I loved every single one of them. I genuinely enjoy meeting new people and learning their story. It’s kind of my thing.
I relished the thought of being the new girl — again. Ah, the possibilities. So, I sincerely felt that the move to Amsterdam would bring forth new glorious, once in a lifetime friendships that I would carry with me forever. Someone to fish me out of a canal, you know, just in case. Vodka.
I didn’t take into account how hard it would be to meet people when you are worried sick for your newborn, don’t speak the local language, and aren’t working outside of your home. I don’t even remember months 1 – 8; I just remember panic and mistakes and never enough spice on my food. Finding new ways to make friends just wasn’t high on my list.
Eventually, as we started to take more chances in this dam town, Dawson and I both made new friends. Play dates for days. And I have made some pretty fantastic ones but I am still searching for deeper relationships and ANYONE with a shared love of Buffy, our favorite misunderstood slayer. I don’t need ALL THE FRIENDS, I just need some good ones that don’t waste time on shitty books, enjoy my southern rambling, and doesn’t necessarily have to know their way around a breast pump.
2) Become more faithful. Talk to Jesus. Take me to Church, Hozier. Please.
No one would call me super religious. I doubt any one can recall the last time they saw me in mass or heard me offer spiritual guidance to someone in need (I prefer providing the beer and quoting Disney animals). But I am faithful and I do adore my religion and talk to Jesus every day. And I am just starting to realize that I would like to know more about the man and want to actually feel the words I have chanted for so long now. I want to share my faith with my son and pray with my husband and actually attend mass and not have my mind wander and dance down the aisles. I want to be present.
I also want to read the bible. Not so I can instagram pretty pictures of bookmarked readings but so that I can find meaning and purpose and talk about my faith in confidence when a friend asks to share. And then maybe instagram it. Because followers.
God has done some pretty fantastic things this past year and even though some of it broke my heart, he also restored it. And I need to know more. And now I am ready. Also, I am not sure if leggings are appropriate church attire so I am going to need some guidance and a-line skirts.
3) Become a mother (my way).
I have been a parent for a total of 18 months. And what do I have to show for it? Besides stained shirts, a bruised ego, and an unfinished first draft — I have kept my son alive and happy and somewhat clean (most days… not today, do not smell him today).
Moving to a new country while learning how to be a parent was much harder than I imagined it would be. Shit, not being able to see your own mama on those really tough days, was its own unique kind of torture. And up until now, I have just been coasting through on the advice of others (mothers, friends, blogs, forums, there was that one dude at Starbucks…). I have appreciated and sincerely needed all the help and advice I received. But I would like to take these sacred parental reins and start making me own decisions — trying my best not to let others best intentions weaken my own resolve.
This year I will become a mama of two. As frightening as that is (to most of Holland) I am determined to be kinder to myself, my body, my husband, and my sanity. That’s the plan. And I hear babies hate those things.
4) Dress up on Tuesday.
Why Tuesday? Because it’s the shittiest day of the week, offering little more than a slight reprieve from the Monday blues and the dirtiest reminder that you are still way too far from the weekend to be too excited. But, since I have become a stay at home mom, living in a foreign country sans my favorite drinking partners, most of my days have started to feel like Tuesday. I never dress up. I loathe the thought of putting on make up. And I can make better excuses than you about why I shouldn’t buy another pair of heels.
And now “Tuesday” is bleeding over other areas of my life. When I was younger, I had these grandiose dreams of all the fancy traveling I would do. In these adolescent dreams, I was always fabulously dressed up, glamourous to all those around me, even at the airport. Now that I actually get to travel (more often than I could have ever imagined) not only do I not dress up for the airport, I seldom wear more than yoga pants around the Louvre (or some place of equal importance). Traveling is a treat, a special thing that I look forward to for months, and I have somehow made it to be another task that I hurry on through (baby on hip) and stress about because I am quite sure I will never find a nipple shield in Zurich or big enough diapers in Lisbon. And now I have forgotten his favorite blue truck — the trip is ruined and nothing I am wearing matches and it feels like Tuesday. Again.
I have somehow associated being a mom with being less fancy. And that’s just not true. Sure, I am tired and cranky and I might have stepped in dog poop yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I can’t buy a new dress and show it off down The Royal Mile in Edinburgh. Or when I go grocery shopping next Tuesday. Which is my plan. Fancy as shit, translating my way through the freezer aisle.
5) Treat writing as a job.
I have wanted to be a writer as long as I can remember. And I know all writers say this, so I am working on new material. Because cliché.
I gave up my wedding planning business in New Orleans to become a stay at home mama in Amsterdam (for my pretty husband’s job). Part of the appeal to this huge, life-changing move (with a six month old) was that I would get to pursue my writing career and adjust to being a parent — two of the most important things in my life. It sounded like a dream come true, and most days I do indeed pinch myself, but it hasn’t been the easiest transition and writing is always the last thing on my daily dirty list.
I need to make a schedule and stick to it. I need to write everyday. I need to not wait for the sun to shine, my cup to be full, and the dude to nap for hours — things don’t have to be perfect and I need to get over myself. I need to do this now. Or I won’t do it ever. And I have quite the story to tell.
And even if they suck, at least that page won’t be blank anymore.
So, now you know. And now I know you know. And someone, somewhere we likely hold me accountable for these scribbles. And it will be worth it.
Let’s make magic, 2015. Or at least commit in writing to take the trash out more. But don’t quote me.