The world does not need another New Year's resolutions story: less gluttony, more success, less trashy foods tra la la la, so I won't bore you with a self righteous piece about running the London marathon and drinking more water. Writing a list of pretentious dribble that I will mock come December 31st has, for me, never been a useful tool in marching forward. I'm a huge believer in positive change and altering what isn't working, however I consider that an ongoing activity. Since we are 24 days into January, it feels slightly out of kilter to still be discussing the grand entrance of 2017. Nevertheless, New Year arrived with a belly full of cheese and lashings of red wine (similar to the way I approach every weekend) but one stark difference was that 2017 held the key to my 30th year on the planet. Don't hastily serenade me with can I see your ID? because my current dishevelled appearance would cast your mind to bag lady glam. When you work from home the fashion police are always on a tea break. Let's hobnob to that.
During the festive season I watched 21 Days Under The Sky and freaking WOW. Where's my Harley and stash of Jack D? The story of four friends travelling America one highway at a time with the intense possibility of running out of fuel before the next stop is completely my shake. My sleeping one year old and mountain of ironing speak different truths. To say I wanted to make a down payment on a Harley and ride into the Nevada sunset was an understatement of all proportions. With the open road constantly on my mind, an adventure beaconed. Although I've had a handful of adventures since my son was born, they have always come with a curfew and a child friendly setting. An adventure where there are no noise or alcohol limitations is the type that festered since watching 21 Days Under The Sky.
Then like a bat outta hell, my daydreaming cast a heavy load of guilt upon my mind. To elevate the guilt I crept upstairs to sneak a peek at my cocooned baby, and in a heartbeat the sight of his arms held above his angelic face and the faint wisps of his breathing put a pause on my craving for adventure and settled my heart with gratitude. If Google history could talk it would tell my son that the multicoloured basement rave and reservations for Le Gavroche were mere fragments of a pending 30 year old crisis, not a reflection of how I would spend any free time if it came knocking. When gratitude knocks at the door, are you humbled by what you have or crave something bigger and flashier? Do you say I'm busy right now wiping the spaghetti bolognese off my living room walls and couldn't be happier with this normal scheduling?
To follow Hannah Horvath's positive affirmation, "it is really liberating to say no to shit you hate". I am starting my 30th year by ejecting negativity, jealousy and celebrating the little things that too often are the big things: drinking coffee while it's still warm, coming home to a plump baby face, finding remnants of toast in my handbag because nothing screams motherhood quite like saying farewell to your beloved clutch, meeting new mothers at soft play and building friendships for my son, falling asleep with a book plonked on my face at 8pm, and evening jenga matches instead of gin cocktails.