Was it just yesterday I smugly wrote a list of resolutions in my brand new diary? Promising myself that in 2017 I would stop yelling, find inner calm and discover Ryan Gosling’s address? To be honest, I’d have settled for achieving just one of them, and we all know which one it is.
So, how many of you made parenting resolutions at the start of the year? Told yourselves on January 1st, 2017 that you weren’t going to scream any more? That you’d find a way to unclench your rectum during PTMs? That you’d no longer stay up till 3 am doing a science project and then manically run behind the school bus with it the next day?( Because OF COURSE your kids walked out the front door without noticing the igloo you hand-crafted with ice cubes and super glue)
I know how overwhelming it can be at the end of the year when you haven’t managed to strike off a single resolution from your list. I think I foolishly (and publicly) proclaimed in this column that my new year resolution was to ensure ‘I was in the moment’ a lot more. Ha. The last twelve months have proved that it’s very difficult to be in the moment when you’re trying to find out what last week’s math homework was and when the next unit review is. Parenting is being in a constant state of limbo between past and future.
That was in January. Fed up with being the only one in the house who knew where shin guards, book report books and Great Devourer Lego heads were (the last one was under my foot), my mid-year resolution was to not be responsible for other people’s stuff anymore (replace stuff with a four letter word.) You’d think this would be a freeing resolution, to no longer be tethered to other people’s schedules, notes, diaries and after-school sports practice. But no.
All that happened was that I went around with a rigor mortis grin on my face saying ‘You’re on your own pal!’ or ‘Fine! Don’t pack your bag for school and fill your water bottle the night before’ and ‘If you don’t feel like doing your homework, it’s your decision.’ My kids kept whispering to each other that there was something wrong with my face and that I sounded scary. A demeanour of forced enthusiasm and calm can be a terrifying thing.
Towards the end of the year I realised what was at the root of all my woes: technology. It was making me a cranky, 37 year old toddler. The brightly lit screens, the constant barrage of information and trying to figure out who to be on Twitter was getting to me. Or rather, my phone was sick of me and voluntarily jumped out of my hand. I decided in November that I would end the year with a digital detox. I’m writing this while stalking strangers I don’t like on Instagram.
I haven’t mastered shirsasana, or mustered the courage to look at the bottom composting unit. But my phone is back so maybe I will find out where Ryan Gosling lives. Whatever you did or didn’t you do this year, don’t beat yourself up. There’s always next year.
Menaka Raman
Twitter@menakaraman
The writer’s philosophy is: if there’s no blood, don’t call me