I have good intentions. You know the sort of things. This year I’m going to make everyone’s Christmas presents. I’m going to remember to take photos. I’m going to stop getting so exasperated when Thing 1 decides he can’t possibly put socks on without assistance or Thing 2 thinks I haven’t quite enough laundry and a top, vest and sock soaking nappy leak is required. I’m not going to roll my eyes when the bank asks me for security information and I inform them for the 100th time that I don’t hand them out over the phone and they can just fecking well write to me. I will stop subsisting on substandard subsistence. I will stop drinking wine before a) the bottom of the bottle or b) I can’t say ‘subsisting on substandard subsistence’.
And I’m going to blog. Everyday, throughout November.
Because life is going by too fast now. I’m getting older. Days are no longer the Kidland 500 hour marathons they were. Weekends rush by. Thing 2 is five months old; I feel like I blinked and missed it. I don’t want to forget what my children were like when they were tiny. I don’t want to forget Thing 1 being so excited about a kazoo in a party bag, or when he genuinely thought Farmer Christmas came with the Baby Jesus in a stable with an ox and ass, or the misery of potty training (actually, scrub that last one). Thing 2 is nearly sitting up and I know if I take my eye off him he’ll be up and walking and arguing that he brushed his teeth yesterday already just like his big brother.
So, this really is a Good Intention. The best sort of intention. A month or remembering the little things. Or in my case, the little Things.