Resolved

Last New Year's Eve, we were just two. Nate and I went up north to John and Julie's place and enjoyed a long, fabulous dinner with them before ringing in the new year in front of a fire, the cold Michigan wind howling outside our windows. We slept in the next morning and woke to walk up and down the beach. I remember it well because it seemed like it was out of a movie--no one was around, the sky was gray but bright and the bare trees rattled against one another. All the houses were empty, and the sheet of ice that formed along the shore of Lake Huron was strong enough that we could walk out a ways on the ice, further removing us from any chance of human interaction. We didn't talk much, and I was lost on some internal tangent, thinking again and again about the new year, wondering what it would have in store for me. I secretly felt some sort of greatness lurking. Nate had given me an accordian and I was thinking (after binging on concerts over winter break) I would take to it easily and change the sound of garage rock. Or maybe I'd finish my book of poetry. Something. We lingered all afternoon outside, long after John and Julie headed back toward Detroit. There was just something special about the day--it was lonely and haunting and perfect.

Little did we know that Clementine had already claimed her place inside my body, our lives, our hearts. Days later, I would stop ignoring the nagging suspicions I had and take a pregnancy test. I would freak out, feel scared, wonder how it happened (yes, I know the mechanics, but...). And then I would get happy. Ecstatic.

This New Year's we had 6:00 p.m. dinner reservations and were home by 9. Luckily we had friends who didn't think this the lamest plan in the universe and they joined for dinner and an evening after at home in sweats with my happy, sweet, sleepless little girl. We headed out this morning to spend the day with John and Julie, and it wasn't until this evening on our drive home, Nate driving, me in the backseat comforting car-hating Clementine and pumping (oh glamour!), that I stopped to think how much my whole life had changed this year. Yes, the obvious: kid, kid, kid. It changes everything. But there are things you can't see, too. I am not the woman who, a year ago, walked along the shores of Lake Huron and imagined her life was about to break open like a movie plot. I am that woman broken open. I am that woman who thought she knew what she was getting into (still does, though every day proves her wrong), that woman who was looking for what it would be in this life, this year, that would find all the potential inside her and help her realize it. I am that woman who may have found her greatness in the eyes of a little girl she never even knew she wanted or needed as much as she does.

This is the end of a tremendous year and the beginning of one that only promises better and better things. Tonight my darling C. slept and slept (no nap), but we couldn't seem to put her down, passing her back and forth and admiring her sleepy little figure like we used to when she was newly born. When she woke up, the three of us sprawled across our bed and played, laughing and staring wide-eyed at one another until she fell back asleep. She has changed so much in the short, short time she has been a part of our lives. The shrieking, wriggling, beautiful and intimidating creature who escorted us trembling and excited from the hospital has grown into an alert, aware and active baby determined to explore and understand every inch of the world around her. How could that have happened so fast? And more importantly, what next?

What will our next New Year together be like? I'll only indulge myself in wondering for a moment because I don't want to get lost in the future--each moment in the present is way too precious to give it over to something yet to come. But I can't help but wonder if she'll be walking or talking, what her temperament will be, what kind of parent I'll be, what kind of wife. I wonder what the world will be like and whether we will have spent enough time making the people we love and who are important to us feel our undying appreciation. I wonder if Clementine will know then or ever how important she is to me, how much she has changed my life, how grateful I am for the woman she has helped me find within myself.

Hell, this schmaltz is worse than resolutions. I should just write that I resolve to lose weight (who has time?), quit smoking (I don't smoke), spend more time at the gym (the what?). But I can hear Clementine snoring in the next room, and I know I can't sit here a second longer. Instead, I resolve to listen to that instinct above all others this year and just be done with it.