I looked. I found plenty of Somethings. But none of them were anywhere near the vicinity of Wonderful. Some were kind of Meh and a few gems were complete Disasters. More like an exercise in free-writing while high on expired Nyquil than something I’d like to share with the world.

So that leaves me to come up with Something New. And I’m hoping it’s Deep and Meaningful.

I’m supposed to talk about those as-of-yet unbroken promises I haven’t quite narrowed down to committing to for the immediate future. And buy some new running shoes so I can get to that new gym with the brand new membership I’m supposed to rush out to buy so I can fight for an elliptical machine until most have decided to wait until next January to try again, right? Or am I supposed to look back on 2011 and the stories shared, memories made, and goals achieved?

I could do that, except maybe I won’t. Not because I’d rather avoid the imminent panic attack next December when I finally fall asleep wondering if the world will still be there for me to wake up to or if social media will be alive and well and pointing fingers at the Mayans for being total drama queens. And that’s because this (read: the me having a Conspiracy Theory-worthy panic attack) will probably happen. I’m just wired that way.

I won’t wax poetic about the end of the old and the start of the new simply because, for me, I feel caught in limbo. Between what and what, I have no idea. I just know that this feels like my last post of 2011 no more than the first one did and that this was the first year that my birthday was really just another day and maybe 34 is the year that the passing of time becomes nothing more than a measure of how fast my child is growing and not a direct reflection of myself or that last grey hair I pulled out.

If I didn’t have a checkbook with what will probably be a month’s worth of ruined checks during the 2012 honeymoon period while I retrain my brain to write the new year, I’d probably forget that anything has changed.

Buttercup and I were out shopping the other day when a store employee asked Buttercup how her Christmas had been. After the expected excitement and squeals and Santa Brought Me’s, the employee smiled and asked Buttercup what she was doing to bring in the new year. Buttercup wrinkled her nose and blinked.

New Year? The look on her face told us both that she had no concept of what was being asked of her. She simple stood there for a moment while she tried to figure out for herself what this New Year was and how exactly one was supposed to Bring It In.

Finally, she smiled and her eyes brightened.

“But it’s not June yet,” she said, “and that’s when my new year starts. I’ll be five then. I’ll probably have a birthday party with my friends. Right, Mama?” And  I told her that yes, she very probably would.

Dear Mr. Claus,

May I call you Kris? I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for your yearly contribution to the marked improvement in my daughter’s behavior at the end of the year. Although I do have to say that it is a tad disconcerting that, unless reminded that you can see her when she’s sleeping and know when she’s awake, I can’t get her to put one foot in front of the other without a fight. Not to mention that, after having reread that last sentence, I just realized I may be a little bit afraid of you now.

No matter, Kris. I may call you Kris, right? Santa seems to be reserved for the sitting on your lap crowd, and I am obviously beyond that. But do you mind if I ask you to submit to a background check before next year’s mall photo and gift request? (I do hope you understand.)

I found it quite charming how you made Buttercup so comfortable during her time with you this year. She can’t wait to see if you brought her that special doll she asked you for. And no thanks is necessary, Kris. My husband and I took it upon ourselves to go to extreme lengths to purchase the requested item, buy a special roll of wrapping paper that is only being used for gifts “from you”, and hide said gifts until one of us can sneak downstairs after she falls asleep on Christmas Eve to leave the small stash of goodies “from you” beneath the tree. We all know the economy sucks and I’m sure the lost manpower during the last round of elf lay-offs still has you frantically trying to keep up with and meet product demand by the expected deadline. We will, however, be submitting an itemized expense report outlining all expenses incurred on your behalf and expect to be reimbursed for our troubles. I hope Paypal works for you and the Mrs.?

I’d also like to ask your opinion on parenting tactics come the day after Christmas. Let’s face it, Kris. She’s four and has no real concept of time. Next year is about as threatening to her as next week, and because neither is happening in the next five seconds, they don’t matter in the slightest. That means I’m looking at about 10 months of parenting hell because I can’t drop a Santa-bomb until Target kicks the Halloween candy to the curb, skips right over the Thanksgiving turkey, and starts blasting the Christmas music early enough to make even you want to throw up. And please give me more detailed advice than last year because asking her to “follow me in merry measure” when we would both rather throw tantrums frankly does me no good.You deal with a world-full of children in one 24-hour-period, while they are all sleeping of course, so I’m sure you understa…

Oh never mind.

Anyway, feel free to stop in on Christmas Eve and don’t feel that you need to BYOP (We already covered the presents, remember?) but do enjoy the cookies we will be baking in your honor. We left a magic key for you to use since we don’t have a chimney and you can’t seem to remember the alarm code before the damned thing goes off, so please, consider the key our gift to you. We will leave it hanging on the front door. We just ask that you remember to lock up after you leave. And for the love of Christmas, please make sure to pick up and properly dispose of any reindeer business before you take off. I’ll be sure to place the garbage can where you can find it.

Please give my love to Mrs. Claus and remind Rudolph that he’s always special. I do remember how the therapist said he thought Rudolph only felt worthy of attention after a major snowstorm and all.

Sincerely,

Aspiring Mama and The Husband

Because when one means to send this photo with a sweet “Merry Everything” printed on it to her husband’s sixty-year-old former co-worker…

…and sends this one instead?

Well…one needs to realize not everyone is going to see the humor in being inadvertently flipped off by a four-year-old in a cowboy hat.

*These photos were taken by my friend Melanie at Above All Fabric.

Or maybe…?

I could go the easy route (for me, at least) and post a few pictures of my crafting/baking weekend with Buttercup and tell you all how the making of the spinach chips…

…and from scratch chocolate pudding…

…and Quinoa protein bars…

…and gluten-free gingerbread men cookies…

…and mason jar snow globes we made just kept me so busy I just plain forgot to get on the elliptical. And, to be fair, it would be at least half-true.

Or I could tell you about how I’m wondering how many of Buttercup’s future issues will be a direct result of all the effort The Husband and I are putting into The Great Lie about that guy in the red suit who somehow wiggles his fat ass down our chimneys each year, despite the cookies he pounds down, and leaves gifts for our kids that We Didn’t Have to Pay For because His Elves Made Them in His Workshop before The Flying Reindeer helped him circle the globe in one night to deliver the goodies just because It Makes the Children Smile? If you think I’m overreacting, then I’ll just let the Asking The Husband to Sneak Downstairs to Quietly Open the Front Door last night and Ring the Doorbell before running upstairs with an Elf-Delivered envelope for Buttercup containing Santa’s Magic Key slip into history as a moment of genius and not a reason to funnel Buttercup’s college savings into a Ways My Parents Set Me Up for Therapy fund. And I’ll spare you the details about the raised eyebrow we got in response when Buttercup told us that the elf wasted a trip because everyone knows that Santa just magically makes chimneys appear on Christmas night so Why Would He Need a Key for the Front Door, huh?

Of course, I haven’t told you about new doctor on the other side of town or the MRI I have coming up on Wednesday to see if that pesky little (benign) pituitary gland tumor is back, or the skin biopsy I have scheduled for next week to try and come up with a reason behind this crazy rash on my ribcage that just won’t go away, or the results of the 14 different blood tests I’m waiting on with at least one of them (hopefully) providing an explanation for the changes in hair texture and the piles I leave behind on the shower floor every time I wash it.

Remember the hat? I’m not just wearing it because I think it looks cute.

But then again, if I told you all of that, I’d feel obligated to share the fact that I’m living proof that it is entirely possible to work out almost daily and still gain so much weight that I’m now just under what I was when I gave birth four years ago and that my doctor almost brought me to tears when he told me I wasn’t crazy and that we would work together to figure my body out and fix whatever is broken.

And seriously? I’d rather just avoid that topic altogether.

So instead I’ll tell you about how Buttercup and I selected a snowman off of the Christmas Angel tree at her preschool and went shopping for a two-year-old girl and how I explained to my own little girl that it’s important to help her Angel girl smile because Mama remembers waiting in line long ago for a wrapped toy that came from a big box and was handed to her by a kind stranger. That gift made me smile when I was little, I tell my baby girl, and she asks me if ours will make Angel Girl smile, too. Yes, I say, smiling gently. I think it will.

And then we all go on with our days.

Which reminds me…I’ve got to cross that last one off of my bucket list….

Anyway, I didn’t tell you what happened after I hit publish. It’s simple, really. But it’s also made of awesome.

We drove home. And because we had about five hours between Where We Were and Where We Actually Live and mainly because my nerves couldn’t handle it we were on our first road trip with Buttercup not in a pull-up, we made more than one visit to the rest stops on the way. That meant we had to take a few more moments for me to take photos of the Scenic Lookouts, right? Come on, moms…don’t lie to me. You and your road-trippy self might never be caught dead in one of the instagrammed pics you plop up on the Interwebz for the world to see, but you’ll be damned if you miss an opportunity to force your kid to stand in one place and JUST SMILE DAMMIT in the name of preserving a memory.

Which leads me to this…

And this…

Two shots.

Done.