i have never been a new year’s resolution person. when people would ask for mine, i’d play along, choosing the regulars: to exercise, drink less, and call my mother more.
when my kids were young, i started a resolution tradition with a twist. on the eve of the new year, we would put together a list of what we hoped would happen by the end of the following year. things like reading more books and getting better grades often made the list. then, subscribing to the theory that if you read your goals every day, your mind makes them happen [eyeroll], i would post the list on the fridge until the end of the year, when we would see what we accomplished.
the list-making ended when my son was ten and he secretly scribbled the word “poo” all over the paper. when i asked him why, he said, “mama, i don’t like those lists. they make me sad. nothing ever happens.” it got me thinking about the consistent #2 on my list — to own a beach house somewhere hot. this will probably never happen, yet, year after year, i hope. is that bad? if you ask my mother, the answer is yes. “when you live in hope, you die in despair,” she would say.
but maybe my little guy was on to something. do expectation-setting new year’s resolutions kill your chill? maybe.