I have no patience for January. Even though it’s my birthday month (forty-five coming up on the 28th–mark your calendars), I have never been particularly fond of this month. After the Christmas decorations are put away, I want spring to spring forth and cheer me up with daffodils. I don’t want to live through the grim gray days of rain.
But what choice is there? You can’t wish away a whole month, nor a season. I’ve never found a way to leap over an unpleasant monotony. You just have to become conscious and walk through the day, sometimes inch by inch. Whatever it takes.
I wish I were more of a cheery type, the kind of woman who bursts with optimism and celebrates the little moments. That’s the person I expected to be when I read all those parenting books before I had kids. I’d have a meticulous house with a calendar chock-full of events and activities and happenings. And I’d wear a flouncy apron.
As it turns out, though, I’m kind of glum, especially during January. Christmas is over and I start worrying about taxes and birthdays (three of my kids have upcoming birthdays) and remaking myself into the image of the Person I Ought To Be. (That always involves exercise and often features self-deprivation.) I dream of reading more, paying attention better and getting more done.
But really? I’m just waiting for daffodils.
(Note to self: Please get your Christmas New Year’s Valentine’s Day letter in the mail today.)