Gonna Party Like it’s !

What is it about New Year's that leaves us weeping over the 'Year in Review' issue of People Magazine we hold in one hand while simultaneously jotting down incredibly optimistic goals for the upcoming year on a notepad in the other? (Or is that just me?)

 

It’s an annual thing for me, this nostalgia and optimism.  I always think it’s gonna’ be great.  I always think I’m going to joyfully ring in midnight and I’m going to march forward creating a well-rounded, self-actualized, perfected version of me.

The reality, however, tends to find me on New Year’s Eve nursing a cocktail and a bruised psyche.  The reality generally finds me all alone as the clock strikes midnight, watching the ball drop and the folks in New York losing their collective minds on time delay, and lovers passionately ringing in the New Year. 

How I get the idea of how great this New Year’s Eve is going to be, I’ll never know.  In all my years I think I’ve had two happy and up-to-expectation experiences on this blurry night.  One was with an ex-then-current boyfriend on a river boat when I hadn’t really broken up with the current-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend back at home.  It was a perfect night despite my conscience nagging at me like Jiminy freaking Cricket the whole time.  The other was a party we hosted up in Palmdale that was planned out to the nines and, even to my party planning standards, was simply the best New Year’s party ever.  Outside of those two instances, though, I can share a litany of pathetic stories of kisses that didn’t happen, and “Happy New Year"s that didn’t get shouted joyfully into the rafters, and 2:00 a.m. runs to rescue drunken friends from the side of the road (you know who you are).

They weren’t ALL bad, mind you.  Over the years Cheyanne and I came up with a tradition to bring in the night together switching between Dick Clark and MTV in our warm, safe home.  Those were fun, silly nights but the first year I broke that tradition began the Curse of the Really Bad New Year’s Eves.  Since then, they have consistently been solo and somewhat sad.  The worst part - always - is having no one to kiss as that stupid disco ball slips down its stripper pole.

One time, in the past 6 years, my wee one actually woke up right at midnight.  I was just about to go off the edge in my misery when she stirred in her sleep.  Funny enough I was writing a journal entry at that exact moment.  Here’s the excerpt from that entry: "Dia woke up – 1 minute to midnight.  I was going to write a 5 year goal and a one year goal, and a ton of New Year’s resolutions, but I think I’ll just snuggle with her and go to bed.  It was nice to give someone a kiss at midnight.  She is … she is what’s so right about everything right now."  She gave me perspective that night and since then I haven’t had such disappointing Eves.  Of course, that was just 2 years ago, so I’ve only tested that out once so far…

Besides the failed celebrations, I can’t forget the failed resolutions.  Every year you can find me right here resolutioning and goaling and planning for the coming year’s New and Improved Best Katie Ever to be exhibited at this year’s Human Show.  (I kind of wish they really had those.  You know – like car shows?  “Here we have the 2013 Katie, a more roomy model than previous years…”)  

Already this year is proving to be no different as I’m struggling to focus on my work (and look – I’m writing this instead) and have a notepad next to me to jot down ideas for what I really want me to do this year: Practice piano, read more, work out more regularly, meditate and manage my stress better.  I have a ton of wishes on what I want to be when I grow up too, but I don’t even want to mention that 5 year goal or even a 1 year goal.  How exactly does one find Prince Charming (no – seriously – the one from "Enchanted"), make a gazillion dollars and become a best-selling author without leaving home? So I’ll concentrate on the more doable things. Check in with me on January 3^rd and see how that’s working out for me…

So ... back to tonight:  Yeah, it’s gonna’ be great.  But this year?  It seriously is going to be great.  Know why?  Because one thing I DID do in 2012 was figure out how to love the ordinary.  I learned that to be truly happy a spectacular fairy-tale world isn’t necessary, a brilliant career isn’t necessary, an exciting adventure isn’t necessary.  I have a blessed ordinary life and that alone, is more than so many.  So tonight I’ll have a sparkling glass of something, find an east coast streaming of that blasted ball and its far more blasted audience, have 12 grapes as the clock strikes midnight ET and give my skinny little girl a big fat kiss.  Then I’ll tuck her in, meditate, practice some piano, do 20 minutes on the rowing machine and then 50 sit ups, 20 push ups and finish up with 3 chapters out of one of the books on my bedstand.  I might even be asleep before midnight our time.

Or not.  I might just get drunk.

Happy 2013 everybody!

Pinkie Promise

“Mama, I’m scared.” She shivers and scoots nervously down on her pillow nestling her body closer to mine.

“It’s OK, my love” I respond, knowing what is coming next. 

“Pinkie promise I’ll wake up in the morning?” 

“I promise, my love.  I promise.” 

This is her nightly routine.  While other kids are tucking themselves in, or enjoying a nightly story and a kiss goodnight, my little girl is begging me to promise that she will live through the night. 

Months ago when this all started I would assure her with a thousand words.  I explained how the doctors would surely know if she were close to death, how she isn’t sick like that, how I will stay right there with her and make sure she’s fine all night.  A thousand words.  Eventually, though, they became repetitive and meaningless.  A simple promise is as close to extinguishing her fears as I can get.

Along with her medical doctors, we have a worry doctor who has given me her stamp of approval for my nightly pinkie promise.  In the adult world we know all too well that I can’t actually promise that.  Recent tragic events prove I can’t even legitimately promise she’ll  come home from school alive, but I view it as a promise in good faith:  With the information I have available to me at this time, I know for certain I can promise that she will make it through the night.  

So my pinkie promise comforts her, albeit for a short 24 hours.  Yet her nightly need for that reassurance haunts me every second of every day. 

I try to reason with myself.  I think I know where this comes from.  She’s lost too much in her 6 years.  In fact, she often will list each person and animal that has passed on.  The worst part is there isn’t a nice simple answer for why they died like I had when I was little.  Back then my experience was that  the only things or people that died were all terribly old.   The death Dia has known has struck the very young, the very old, the sick and the injured and so Dia believes herself vulnerable.  No matter how often I tell her so, she doesn’t have the understanding that she isn’t terminally ill.  To her?  Sick is sick and sick equals dying.   

Any fellow moms out there?  Yeah?  Well, think about  facing your child’s mortality every.single.night.  Humbling?  Hardly.  More like dancing with insanity.

It is so easy to look at Dia and see a healthy child.  I watch her laughing, swimming, running around with her friends, playing, twirling and rough-housing with her brother, riding her bike… she looks typical, normal, healthy.   It is incredibly easy during those times to convince myself that she is absolutely one hundred percent fine.  Sometimes other parents will even point out these moments and comment that “she looks fine now.”  They are right.  She does look fine then, but afterwards she comes home and basically collapses… or the fever hits again … or I get her on the scale and she’s lost weight again… or the brown skin she so proudly wears turns terribly pale and her eyes become sunken and encircled in black.  She pays for every moment she tries to be a normal kid.  She acts and looks sick and then, once again, I know this is for real.  The reality is that she is not, in actuality, a healthy kid.

I hate it.  I can feel the rage building.  I want to destroy it.  But “it” doesn’t have a name.   I need to know what dragon to slay, what demon to exorcise, what ass to kick.  I want to know what is making my child weak and unable to keep up with her friends on the playground.  I want to know what is making my daughter need a bedtime routine that is so absolutely and completely unjustly wrong.  I want whatever is accountable for this to show itself.  Let us face off man-to-man.  Let me know my enemy so I can take it in my bare hands and twist its neck until all life fades from its being.

….sigh…

I have good doctors for Dia.  I really do.  I know they are going through the processes they must to diagnose her.  I understand we have a process of elimination type of situation going on here.  I also thank God and all the angels in heaven that they aren’t just admitting her and running down all the possibilities in one fell swoop.  This particular child would be ruined by that type of treatment.  They are doing right by her.  I know this. 

And she will make it through the night.  I know this too. 

All the same?  I will stay right here next to her and make sure she’s fine.  Just like I promised.   

- kec