I wrote these words on New Year’s Day, 2006:

I meet this New Year with detached boredom. I feel no excitment at the prospect of turning a new page. It’s cold, dark, and wintry. Certainly not the time of rebirth. These resolutions, they simply slip past me. I’m unwilling to set yet another goal, only to see it not attained. An absurd form of self-loathing. Games, they are. I’m tired of playing games, only to lose each time.

I titled the piece, “Nothing Changes on New Year’s Day,” finding the title dark, bitter, and pessimistic enough to reflect my mood. Nothing Changes. I felt trapped in my shortcomings, shackled by my failures, and utterly incapable of overcoming them. Worse, I found the prospect of attempting to change to be a cruel mockery; certainly, I was destined to fail.

I couldn’t bring myself to publish those words. Too dark. Too depressing. Not for public consumption. But, I held on to them. I didn’t erase them, delete them, or send them off into unindexed, lost, bitspace. There must have been a reason.

It is now a little more than a year later, and I now understand why I saved those words.

A lot of things have happened in the time since I wrote those words. I smile more and I laugh more — at myself more than anyone. And I no longer feel so trapped. My shortcomings and my failures? Many of them are still there. But they no longer anger me or sadden me. They just “are.” I have changed, for the better. And I will continue to change as time goes on. Sure, there will be mistakes, there will be failures, and I’ll stumble and trip along the way. The point is, I have a way, and I always will.

Nothing changes on New Year’s Day. I now read that title and am filled with a sense of optimism, a sense of joy. It’s all a matter of expectations. True, nothing does change on New Year’s Day. Likewise, nothing changes on Tuesday, or Friday, or any other given day. Our opportunities for change aren’t bound by a single day, destined to crumble and disappear should we fail in a twenty-four hour span. We can change, slowly and methodically, on the collective time of each sunrise.  Nothing changes on New Year’s Day;  to me, that is the very definition of optimism and faith.

I’ve always been captivated by tattoos. Mom and apple pie, a sweetheart, or a favorite animal — these things don’t capture me. I’m captivated by the idea of marking your body — on the outside — to reflect something on the inside. But, I’ve never felt a personal need to do so.Until recently.I’ve been doing a lot of work, chez Kristy, of late. There’s more to come on that front, and so much more to say, but, at its simplest, there’s been a little remodeling going on. Tearing down some walls, opening up some windows, letting the light shine in — that kind of work. Lots of sweat and still more tears. But the result? Coming along nicely, I must admit. Coming along nicely.

It dawned on me over the last few months that a tattoo makes sense for me now. I wanted — needed — to mark my body in a way that reflected what I’ve been doing, what I am doing, what I will have done. I wanted to take back a part of my body that had been taken from me. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to smile. And so, a dogwood, for spring, natural beauty, and so much more, and characters meaning to heal, have been placed upon my body.

Ink. Permanent. Indelible. Mine.

There is a plant, “the century plant,” that only blooms once in its life. But, oh, how magnificent that bloom is! Extravagant and showy, it grows fast and tall, regally reaching toward the sky. The prodigal bloom is both the plant’s final swan song and its own undoing, sapping the plant of all its resources and, eventually, causing the plant to wither and die.

I’ve had a plant in my home for the better part of fifteen years. It’s somewhat ungainly, that plant. Its broad leaves reach out singly from the root system, with little more to show than bright, waxy greenness. Rather plain, really. Given to me by my mother upon moving into my first home, the plant has seen me through many joys and tears. Its own health has often mirrored my moods, its wellness and vigor waxing and waning over the years. Whittled down to a few paltry leaves at one point, then nursed back to health by the caring love of my husband, it has now enjoyed a warm state of continued vitality for the past few years. Mirror, mirror.

The other day, Tim called me into the living room.

“Kristy, come here.”

As I came to the doorway, I saw my husband pointing down to this plant. Peeking out of the bundle of leaves was a single stalk, punctuated by a bulging, fertile blossom. It’s actually quite beautiful, this bloom. Graceful and delicate, it dances like a ballerina in white atop a stage of peaceful green. The plant’s unremarkable foliage, for fifteen years belying its secret beauty.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years.

I really hadn’t thought it capable. No, this plant wouldn’t, couldn’t bloom. But, it has. And, once again, it is my mirror. In a relative state of contentment the past few years, I was utterly unaware of just what growth lay within me. Slowly though, this year, I’ve seen a blossoming, a surprise, a graceful transformation that I did not know was there. Unfolding from my own soul, a blossom.

This blossom, though, is not my last. It is not my swan song. Far from it. While the century plant’s destiny is a fiery, striking exit, I believe my unfolding is just a beginning. My plant kept a secret for many, many years. It made me believe it was limited, its potential grounded by dirt. But, out of that soil came the unexpected, and suddenly its potential was boundless. Now, I trust — I know — there are many more blooms to come. Each one, a surprise.

I left a small but significant observation out of my post the other day. That drama belonging to my daughter that I’m so often tired and annoyed by? She comes by it honestly. Very honestly. As much as I’d prefer not to admit it, I can be quite the drama queen on my own. No, I no longer have the tendency to crumple into a heap on the floor when I find out there’s no cranberry juice, but a sad revelation on the part of a friend or even an acquaintance can tax my empathetic soul to its maximum. My emotions bubble and boil at the slightest injustice. And my heart leaps out of my chest on a sunny day.

Seeing my heightened emotional make-up reflected back to me in my daughter can be very disturbing at times. For years, I’ve struggled with these emotions of mine, placing value instead on the ability to be calm and collected. Emotionless. It’s taken a lot of work on my part to come to accept the value of my emotions. Still, as I see that part of me so obviously stamped upon my daughter, I can not help but feel a twinge of anxiety. Will she struggle as I did? Has my genetic makeup taxed her unfairly? Why can’t she just be more like her father in this respect?

I realize, of course, that my reactions to these observations are merely indications that I have more work to do on my own part. And, for that insight, I am grateful. I keep the line drawn, and try to be very cognizant that she is her own person. I am not looking into a mirror; I’m merely looking through a lens — a lens clouded by my own biases.

The reflections and images I see in my daughter, though anxiety-invoking at times, have also been surprisingly therapeutic. When I recognized it was a deep, soulful empathy at work in her display of drama upon understanding the concept of mortality, I didn’t grieve for her, feeling guilty for burdening her with my emotional tendencies. Instead, I saw in my daughter a beautiful ability to connect, to feel, to understand the emotions of others. I saw that as a gift, and, in turn, I was able to see, for a moment, that beauty in myself. I smiled in recognition. A little bit of work, accomplished.

A favorite poem of mine, one that has meant a lot to me as I’ve come to understand myself better, boasts that emotions are gifts — sent from beyond — with a purpose. And although it might appear to be laying a heavy burden upon my daughter to say this, I believe my daughter is in the same sense a gift from beyond. Certainly it is not her responsibility, nor do I require it of her, these therapeutic revelations. But I do believe a little bit of magic is at work, a little bit of wonder, when I catch little glimpses, like the one the other day, reflecting light onto my own soul.

My last day in St. John was spent alone. Due to a complicated set of circumstances, Tim had a separate flight taking off a day earlier than my departure. During the months preceding my vacation, I spent a lot of time fantasizing about that single day - alone, untethered, utterly disconnected and entirely free of responsibility. The day promised to be entirely other-worldly and exotic, in other words.

When the day came, it turned out to be a little less exotic and a little more, well, boring than I’d anticipated. Reading, daydreaming, and idle wandering in the solo form held little appeal when the preceding week had been filled with such activities in the shared form. The prospects of the next day’s travel looming ahead of me and the welcome homecoming immediately following only exacerbated my impatience and frustration with the day. Solitude, I concluded, wasn’t all that I’d built it up to be. I was ready to come home.

Bouyed by this conclusion, I began composing in my head an entry about the temporal nature of wanderlust — that it’s only at its strongest when it’s firmly rooted in home soil. Plucked from its groundings, sent to the very places for which it yearns, it seems to eventually wither and fade, turning its desires back to familiar ground. Home and the familiar, then, are as intrinsic as the exotic in wanderlust’s constitution. Eventually, the ideal escape lives out its life, transforming itself into the ideal homecoming.

And then I came home. And the homecoming has proven to be far from ideal. The terrors at my feet, claiming to be my children, are far less endearing than the sweet beings I’d imagined. The normal, but still painful, problems of dealing with a two and a four year old didn’t magically disappear in the course of the week. The two year old is still very much a two year old, and the four year old is very much a fourteen year old. My nerves, instead of being regenerated by a week of relaxation, are instead entirely out of shape and ill-prepared to absorb the onslaught. I’m nothing short of incapable these days — incapable of soothing my children, my self, and my mind, and the resulting frustration, anxiety and guilt are crushing. Was it only two days ago that I stepped off the plane? Surely, it was two years ago.

A year ago, I claimed that vacation was “all I ever wanted.” Today, if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m not so sure about that assertion. If coming home means coming home to days like this, then I’m not so sure I want a vacation. Either that, or I’m going to have to seriously revise my conclusions about wanderlust. Because, you see, a walkabout without a walk back home sounds pretty good right now.

“I’m having a bad day,” I said to Evan, unfairly unloading on his ill-equipped ears and foolishly looking to him for salvation.

“You hurt?” he asked empathetically in response.

“Yes, I hurt.”

He took the burden unjustly heaped upon him with astounding insight.

“Get BAND-AID,” he said. “You need BAND-AID.”

Wow. What can I say? Have you ever got the feeling you’re on the cusp of something, but exactly what, you’re unsure? [Waving Hand] That’s me, right now.

This entry won’t be so introspective, or well thought-out, or witty, or anything, really. I’m just marking the moment.

I started a job last week — a very part-time job. I’ll be working 10-12 hours a week, both from home and at the client’s site. The work is scheduled to be completed in October, but I’ve reasonable suspicions that this could become a quasi-permanent position. As it is, the income will be very nice, and will relieve some of the pressure we’ve been under the past two and a half years.

This week, I received the required readings for the doula certification process, and I’m beginning to cobble together child-care to cover the time I need to be away for the training workshop in April. I’m finally at a point in my life where I think I can pursue this goal I’ve had for several years. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, by this time next year, I’ll be heading off in the middle of the night to help a woman in labor. How cool is that?

And, finally, I recently made the decision — very confidently, in fact — to put my kids in pre-school only three days a week next year. I’d toyed with the idea of putting Zoe in five days a week, primarily based on pressure I’d (irrationally?) felt from other mothers doing the same. But, in a moment of clarity, I realized I truly wanted a few whole days with my children — now while the time is available. Realizing this was the way I truly felt was, in some ways, a watershed event for me.

These three things, coming together at the same time, mark that something I feel I’m on the cusp of. I don’t know exactly what it is, and I don’t know if it will be successful, but, maybe — just maybe — I’m hitting that stride I’ve sought for so long.

Several years ago we were vacationing with a group of friends in the mountains. Some of our friends had children at the time; we had a dog. We were sitting on the porch discussing the fatal load of “stuff” that seems to creep into every home beginning the moment a child is born and ending…well, never. Pack ‘n Plays. Wipes Warmers. Bouncy Seats. Swings. Stuff. I tried my best to remain silent, painfully aware that my dog ownership — despite its unbelievably taxing demands on our family — hardly qualified us to have an opinion on the topic. When the topic turned to the amount of, and highly-specialized nature of, toys available to kids these days, I felt I could, at last, have some say. Had I not been a kid once? Had I not played with toys once?

“It’s all marketing. Kids don’t need black and white mobiles at 1.3 months of age, followed by soft-and-scratchy toys at 2.4 months of age, followed by whatever developmental toy is deemed to be necessary at the next stage of growth. Kids are resilient AND smart. Sure, they need stimulation, but pots, pans and Tupperware can do wonders.”

I was met with silence. One woman, finally, spoke up.

“You’re wrong, Kristy. Wrong.”

“Really? Seriously? Look at you. You’re a well-functioning adult. We all are. And I seriously doubt you had a black and white mobile dangling over your crib at 1 month. Do you think you suffered for it?”

Again, silence. And then, “Yes, actually I do. I think my mother could have done a better job selecting toys for me at different ages of my life. I hope to do that better job for my own kids.”

I shut up, and went back to being a mere dog owner. I didn’t agree with her, but I wouldn’t let what I perceived as her own emotional hang-ups color my beliefs. I wasn’t going to be the one worrying about what toys I handed my children, fearing long-term repercussions on their well-being should I make the wrong choice, but, if she wanted to be that kind of mom, so be it.

And when my child was born a year later? A black and white mobile hung from her crib.

Of course, it didn’t, really. (A mobile perfectly coordinated with her room decor did.) But, figuratively, that black-and-white mobile dangled above her crib single-handedly forming nerve paths and boosting IQ points well into her toddler-hood. For all intents and purposes, my daughter ended up with all the developmentally - appropriate - or - is - it - really - a - marketing - scam toys she could have wanted.

So much for my conviction. Sort of. I hadn’t pulled a 180 as much as I’d simply seen the other side of the story. Every time I dangled one of those Einsteinian toys in front of her, I felt both ridiculous and positively “MOMMY!” at the same time. I was stimulating her growth! I was a marketing executive’s fool! In reality, things were probably somewhere smack in the middle of the pendulum, but my beliefs sat squarely on the pendulum, swinging from one side of the matter to the other. Entirely ambivalent.

Flash forward nearly four years.

During a chance encounter with, essentially, a complete stranger, the question of my “employment” came up.

“I stay at home with my kids,” I answered.

“You’ve made the best choice. Absolutely, the best choice.”

What was intended to be encouragement and an “atta-boy” struck me, instead, as unbelievably arrogant and self-righteous. I thought to myself, “Really? Just how is it the ‘best choice’? How could he possibly know?” I wasn’t offended as much by the fact that he’d unwittingly insulted the choice I’d made just two years earlier (I’d continued to work from the time my daughter was born until the time my son was born — only then had I decided to stay at home), as much as I was offended by the fact that he felt so sure about my current choice. I, myself, having had the experience on “both sides of the fence”, could clearly see advantages and disadvantages to both sides, and, simply, couldn’t be as sure about my choice as he was, apparently, for me. I’m not saying I think I’ve made the wrong choice in staying at home, I’m simply stating I can’t so easily, completely, and confidently endorse my choice at the expense of the other option. Again, entirely ambivalent.

My ambivalence on so many parenting issues isn’t a manifestation of any lack of confidence; it’s decidedly not an indicator of second-guessing my own decisions. Instead, I believe my ambivalence has at its root my ability to consider — and respect — the many sides of any issue. It’s more than a matter of respectfully ceding personal decisions to their rightful owners; it’s a matter of truly empathizing with more than one side of so many issues.

It all sounds so respectful and mature, this empathetic ambivalence of mine. But, really, a good dose of strong conviction would do me no harm. Conviction can be convenient, and not speciously so. It can be a salve upon your worries, a reassurance to your concerns. Conviction can be a sturdy boat in a stormy sea of questions. Stand upon your convictions, and you stand tall. Ambivalence isn’t such solid ground. Often I find myself seeking terra firma, but never — quite — getting there. Knowing where I stand? A noble pursuit. Too bad I must cross middle ground in my noble journey. I’m, too often, caught in its quicksand.

Yesterday afternoon, as I pondered this issue in my head (and on my keyboard), I watched my kids play together, entirely contented. For a moment, I had no desire to interject myself into their play — they were self-assured and happy. Moments later? I wondered whether I should get down on the floor and more fully engage myself with them. Tupperware vs. Einsteinian Toys. The debate rages on…

Perhaps I should return to the days of mere dog ownership. It was far more convenient.

My favorite holiday card this year came from my college roommate. It included a photo of her two year old daughter and her seven month old son. The photo was, no doubt, one among dozens and dozens taken in an attempt to get the “perfect” holiday snapshot. It didn’t happen. Or, maybe it did. The snapshot selected for the honor of the holiday greeting? A photo of the little boy tipping precariously toward his sister, having obviously lost his shaky balance, and the girl turned away like Judas, using both her hand and foot to make as much distance between herself and her brother. She’s still managing a smile, though — a very, very devilish one.

In my estimation, a more perfect holiday photo could not be taken. For, with one glance at that snapshot, I was given a more clear, accurate, and honest glimpse into their home than any glossy portrait could have ever provided. I knew in an instant that life wasn’t perfect over at her house, but it was still a lot of fun. It brought a smile of recognition to my face.

Perhaps I should take this revelation to heart. I try not to attempt perfection in my life; I know, too well, that it can’t be found. But, too often, I cover up the blemishes, hide the foibles, and toss the dirty clothes under the bed. Not for the general public’s consumption, I say.

Perhaps, though, it should be. Why shouldn’t I let people know about the short temper that flares when the day is long and the time until bedtime is even longer? The weariness that catches me when I’m building a tunnel for the thousandth time? The doubt that accompanies me all too often? I suspect, more often than not, that such a portrait would bring at least a weary smile of recognition to the face of many who gazed upon it.

My portrait — the one with all the blemishes and foibles that Photoshop simply can’t hide — may not be stunning, but it’s charming and endearing, simply because it is real.

(I find it hard to believe I’m going to write about this. Not that I’m going to write about this, per se, but that it even happened to me such that I could write about it. And not that it happened to me, per se, but that I reacted the way I did to what happened to me. I thought, quite frankly, that I was beyond this. But, then again, I probably knew, deep down, that I wasn’t beyond it at all. Confused? Like a Thirteen Year Old Girl? Read on. You’ll understand.)It started out innocently enough:

A party for my son. Yes, he’s two. He won’t remember it. Roll your eyes. But I wanted to do this — for him. Really. I enjoy doing it. And fundamentally? It all boils down to another excuse to eat cake. I’m willing to admit that — right on the invitation.The plans were made; the invitations went out; the favors were prepared; the cake was ordered. Everything Innocent, Still. And Then.One “no reply.” (Another rant-er-topic of discussion- entirely.)One “I’ll be there,” that turned into a complete no-show.One “I think we’re coming, but if it rains on Saturday, we’ll have a make-up event on Sunday that we’ll be going to instead.” They ended up going to the make-up event.One “That’s Chris’ weekend with the kids. He needs to make the call on that one.” This turned into a “We’ll be coming,” one day before the party, and then a “The weather’s dreary so we aren’t coming,” one hour before the actual party.One “We might come, but if we don’t get back in town on time, we won’t be able to make it.” This turned into an after-the-fact “Turns out, we made it back in time and were planning on coming, but just didn’t get our act together that afternoon.”All told: Two out of seven playgroup families attended the party.Plenty of other people showed up, and a good time was had by all, including my son, who, when you really think about it, is all that really matters in this story. But. I was hurt.I was hurt because, out of the entire set of good excuses or non-excuses or ill-excuses from a group of families with whom I’ve been friends for two years, no one offered recognition that I could possibly feel slighted by what had just occured. Two out of Seven. Even if it isn’t a numbers game — and it isn’t — I felt insignificant, at worst, and played like the second fiddle, at best. I know I don’t have a thick skin, and I suspect it’s even thinner in its water-logged state of late, but, my feelings are my feelings, and they’re legitimate, no matter how thin-skinned I am. And I’d hope my friends would recognize those feelings, especially when they’re hurt, and almost making me sick.I’ve always wondered just when I’ll outgrow that sick-in-the stomach feeling I get when I’m hurt by my friends. Somehow, if I haven’t done so by now, I doubt I ever will. In a way, I’m glad I haven’t outgrown that particular malaise. It shows me that I’m still the friend I want to be. Childhood friendships are pure in every way; there’s no pretense involved, and the passion is true and intense. That’s generally the way I am with my friendships, though I recognize, as an adult, that’s not always reciprocated. I’m still willing to give of myself though, even if it results in a few queasy stomachs along the way. But a queasy stomach doesn’t feel so good when you’re in the middle of an attack. You want to reach for the Pepto, or something.So, what to do?Remain silent? Chalk it up to my thin skin and move on? Call into question their friendship and really move on?Bring it up and risk being misconstrued, risk being taken for someone who expects everyone to be able to make it to her party? Clearly, in my mind, that’s not the issue. I can’t argue with some of the excuses. Hell, I’m a mom with two kids myself.So, what to do?Turns out, I surprised myself.I brought it up, today at the playground, with a smaller group from playgroup. One of the offenders. One of the attenders. Turns out, it was the right thing to do. Standing there on the playground chatting — yes chatting — with those girls? A little salve was applied to those feelings. And it was more than appropriate that the conversation took place on the playground.Childish to feel slighted by what took place? Perhaps, if you want to think of it that way. Childish to bring it up, not let it go? Depends on how you look at it. Childish to want to make it all better? Not in my book. My friends are important to me. My feelings are, too. Somehow, they’ve all got to learn to play together well. That sounds pretty adult to me.