I tip-toe into my son's room, careful to avoid the legos spread across his bedroom floor like tiny mines ready to explode and make me scream out in pain at any moment. I know I’ve told him to clean them up at least four times this week, but the weather was beckoning him outside. January in Michigan is usually far too cold to spend any period of time above 15 minutes outside. However, we’ve been blessed with some 40-50 degree days so he’s grabbed his football and headed out, coming back inside only when it's too dark to see the ball directly in front of his face.
He is hunched over and tucked in his bottom bunk with a red notebook and a pencil with the eraser chewed off. His left hand is tucked in his hair at the top of his head and he writes fast and intently with his right. “What are you writing?” I ask. Unaware of my entrance into his room, he jumps, nearly knocking his head on the bottom of the top bunk. Without looking up from his page he answers “What time do you think we will be able to watch TV today?”
He has reserved asking about the TV to either watch a sports game (football and hockey are his favorites but any will do) or to play Madden on his new Xbox. I do not exaggerate when I say this middle child of mine lives for sports. Playing, watching, reading about, any of it will suffice. He’s read almost as many sports players or team biographies as I read nonfiction books last year. If you know me, you know that’s a lot of books. He is a spitting image of his father in almost every way, except his love of books. I will take credit for that one.
“I’m not sure yet. What are you wanting to watch?” I ask, genuinely wondering because I don’t recall there being a game he was particularly interested in happening last night. I imagine it is one of the many recordings of NFL, NHL, NBA, or college games that fill our DVR.
“Just trying to figure out what time to write down. I wrote dinner from 4:50 to 5:30, so maybe at 5:35?” he replies. Ok, now I need to see what he’s writing. So I duck down, making sure I don’t bump my head on the top bunk, and peek at his notebook. It’s titled with the words Chapter 2/2023 and the first line reads, “It’s a time to celibrate the new year! In my time, the date is Jan, 6, 2023.” I smile because the following words are not a list of goals, resolutions, or intentions like I’ve attempted and failed to make. Instead is a detailed outline of his day. Just one day, and how he’d like to celibrate the new year. I’m keeping his spelling because I find it so darn cute. I think about my attempt at starting 2023 off right and I almost laugh out loud. It appears my eight year old son has “understood the assignment” far better than I did.
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It’s December 26th and I am ready.
I’ve already convinced my husband to help me take the Christmas tree down. We’ve boxed up the small amount of holiday decor. My living room is back to its normal state, and I’m headed to my desk with my goal planning guide printed and ready to go. I’ve convinced myself I do it differently because I do not plan to make a single resolution. I have tried and failed countless times, eventually learning the lesson that my lackluster follow through makes for disappointing resolutions.
I plan to sit and reflect on the last year and set some intentions for the year to come. What should be a simple, relaxing process quickly has me spiraling. Did I print out the best guide for this? What was the best thing that happened to me in 2022? Do I really have to write out the hardest lesson I learned? What do I want 2023 to look like? Is this really a core value in my life or just one I think should be? WHY CAN'T I JUST PICK A FREAKING WORD FOR THE YEAR AND MOVE ON?
I’d love to say that I take a deep breath, gather myself, and keep going. I’d like to tell you I walk away from the process with a word and intention for the year to come. However, it is pretty much the opposite. Overwhelmed by some need I created to do 2023 “right,” I just give up. I put my pen down, tuck the elusive goal planning guide in a desk drawer, and walk away. I do not have a word planned to guide my year. The only intention I set is to WRITE MORE.
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The goal planning guide no longer resides in my desk drawer. After reading Easton’s notebook I promptly walked downstairs and tossed the guide in the trash. I’m beginning to realize that if I pay attention to how my kids live their lives that I will learn a thing or two about how to live mine. They are themselves because the world hasn’t yet made them think that who they are isn’t enough, or too much, or not right. Easton woke up that morning not concerned with the “right” way to celebrate his new year. He woke up and decided he would celebrate the new year how he wanted to. He would spend it doing things he loves, with the people he loves.
While I believe setting intentions, and working toward goals is great, there is much to be said about living in the day. Being present to the people, places, and things around you and deciding each morning how you’ll live your life that day. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and decide I’d like to live my life setting some intentions for the year but today I decided I could learn a lot about living my best life from my kids. Today I woke up, made coffee, and sat in my chair to write. I did have to pop in my loop earbuds so I could drown out Easton’s play by play of his Madden game. Thinking smaller might be the biggest thing I do this year.
I just want to celibate you! You ARE writing more!! Proud of you!! ❤️ and this was such a gorgeous story
This turned out so beautifully!! I love it!