I don't know how many New Year's Eves I vowed to change my ways starting the next day. I don't remember the resolutions I likely was compelled to make as a young child. I imagine they were ones meant to make my parents happy.
I'll keep my room cleaner.
I'll be nicer to my younger brother.
I won't complain about the girls having to do all the household work while the boys get a free ride.
Okay, the last one probably isn't accurate. At least, it's not accurate in the sense that I never would have promised to stop complaining about it.
In later teen years and into my 20s, I remember resolving to turn over a new leaf by quitting smoking. I must have quit -- or said I'd quit -- six or seven times over the course of 15 years or so. I would quit, for various lengths of time: a year here, nine months there, less than 21 hours over there. It never stuck. Until it eventually did, far too late in life for me to ever consider myself a non-smoker. I am forever a smoker. I'm just a smoker who doesn't smoke.
Turning over a new non-tobacco leaf nowadays, my resolutions all revolve around finding peace and patience within me to act with grace and good humor when my children, particularly that Youngest of mine, has my heart racing and head spinning and palms sweating. As if I've just smoked a cigarette.
Serenity now! Serenity now!
Frank Costanza's got nothing on me.
[Sunday Scribblings writers tackle a new leaf this week.] [Photo courtesy Wikipedia.com.]
[The 360° project update: 2° involved offering to pick up and deliver a child to my place for a playdate and not giving the parents any grief for not being home for more than an hour past the playdate.]