Let This Be the Year

Let this be the year

we hold the door for one another.

We smile at strangers.

We plant a tree.

We grow a tomato.

We stop arguing about red and white and blue and orange.

 

This year, I want to do things.

 

I want to pet my beloved puppy

at least a hundred times a day.

And feel his soft breath

as if it was my own.

 

I want to sink beneath soft, cool sheets at night

and say, I did it.

I made it through another day.

 

Even more than that, I nudged my people through another day.

Twenty-four hours of needs and wants and demands and milk.

 

It was magnificent.

It was everything I hoped it would be.

 

Let this be the year we put down the screens,

stare into the lonely abyss,

and decide.

 

It is okay to be bored.

It is okay to unsure.

It is okay to alone.

 

Let’s stop curating our fake lives

for Facebook-Instagram-Twitter.

 

Let’s stop telling everyone how busy we are.

 

Let’s stop listing games and recitals and lessons and art therapy,

and say how we really feel.

I am tired.

I am scared.

I am good.

I am here.

 

I am showing up.

Every day, I show up.

 

I show up, and I listen to my boy with autism

obsess over soda products

and I watch him pick holes in his skin.

 

And I think, dear God,

he’s not getting any better.

 

At some point, this has to get better.

Will it ever get better?

 

I listen.

I watch.

I show up.

And so does he.

 

Some days, this is the very best we can do.

Listen.

Watch

Show up.

 

This year, I will read with my girl at night,

because it is easily the best part of my day.

Together we lie, side-by-side,

propped up on pillows,

blankets all around us.

 

Her, with Agatha Christie,

me, with David Sedaris.

Alone with our books, and yet so comfortably together.

 

I love her so much it’s like the stars shine brighter when she is near me.

 

This year, there are things I want to do, and things I don’t want to do.

 

I don’t want to make small talk.

I don’t want to discuss politics.

I don’t want to manage all the different moods in my house.

 

I don’t want to have a pit in my stomach

over this argument,

that disagreement,

or a bad day at work.

I am tired of being the safety net, the barometer reader, the storm chaser.

Husband-son-son-son-daughter-son.

Figure it out on your own.

Figure each other out on your own.

Let this cup pass from me,

for it is, without question, the hardest part of my motherhood.

 

Let this be the year we realize afterschool activities are not the boss of us.

Bad friendships are not the boss of us.

Technology is not the boss of us.

We are the boss of us.

 

I am the boss of who I see and what I do and who I am.

 

Who are you?

What do you want for yourself?

What do you want for others?

 

Let this be the year

we return to small gestures.

Are you a gift-giver?

A meal-maker?

A note-writer?

Choose one, and do it for someone today.

It takes less time than you think.

It means the world.

I believe this.

 

Let this be the year we think twice

before we summon our keyboard courage,

and criticize, chastise, advertise.

 

Let this be the year

we build a family.

Let us sleep late,

and eat dinner in our pajamas.

Let us say no when we need to say no.

Let us return to who we always longed to be,

and do the things we thought we never had time to do.

 

Catch a firefly.

Keep a journal.

Knit a hat.

 

This year, I want to do things.

 

I want to laugh the loudest laugh I’ve ever laughed,

and read the best book I’ve ever read.

I want to do a lot of yoga.

And run many miles.

And lift some heavy weight.

 

I want to ask more questions than I’ve ever asked before.

 

What is your favorite memory?

Who is the smartest person you know?

Why do you jump?

  What is this life like for you?

 

I want to be curious,

and open,

and honest.

 

Are you curious?

Are you open?

Are you honest?

 

This year, let me listen for words unspoken,

and look for reasons to forgive.

 

Let me serve mothers with babies,

veterans with heartache,

and children with hope.

 

Let us serve one another.

 

We can do these things.

 

You, and me.

I know we can.

Happy 2019.

It’s going to be great.

 

I love tomatoes.

 

Jack-a-boo, what is it like to have autism?

For me. It is okay.