There’s always this mystical newness about the first day of January, as if whatever is done on this day sets the tone for the rest of the year.
The first thing I did in 2011 was clean up after one of my children, who was gently woken at midnight and led to her bedroom, where she kissed us, turned toward her bed, and threw up what turned out to be about a quarter of a vast amount New Year’s Eve snacks.* The other three-quarters were deposited right in front of the commode in the bathroom, because the poor kid was asleep on her feet and probably couldn’t remember why she was there until it was over.
We mopped up, tucked her in with the pukepot,** and my husband went to bed while I stayed up and thrashed out a $#%#@ scene that i’ve been fighting with for the better part of a week before crashing for seven hours.
Awakened by the dulcet tones of my children who were having a hairbrush fight in the bathroom, I stumbled to the kitchen, had breakfast with the kids, painted forty tiny nails in purple mood-polish, started dinner,and read over the $#%#@ scene. Which needs work.
I’ve also written this post.
And now I’m going to take a shower, have lunch, and put the Christmas tree away.
There may be a nap, later. Or more $#%#@ scene.
Rock on, 2011!
* I blame the Marx Brother’s marathon. The adults were go engrossed that we didn’t notice how much of the summer sausage, ginger cookies, and caramel dreamlets had been consumed until we cleared up.
**We have a dented, medium-handled pot that is both receptacle and comfort for anyone with an oogy tummy and which—I stress—is used for nothing else. I highly recommend having one on hand, whether you have children or not.