Is there still partying after 30?

I had planned to see in the new year tonight with a cup of tea, dozing on the lounge in front of the television.

Okay, I lie. Our tv doesn’t work – I planned to be snoring away in bed from around 9:30pm like….well, probably best not to name names here….

Now that I’ve completely lost your respect, might I suggest that the absence of company in this scenario did not stem from a lack of invitations (the use of the singular ‘invitation’ may be a more accurate choice here), or a steady decline into that old age zone where one day smoozes so closely with the next that we choose not to name them individually anymore.

Rather, it came from a dedication to my shift-working mate, who insisted that I go out and merry-make alone, but whom I couldn’t bring myself to leave on such an auspicious occasion. But don’t worry, I’ve gotten over that rather uncharacteristic moment of loyalty and have chosen to brave the uncomfortable few minutes of snogging couples that occurs immediately after the countdown in the name of a good party.

Party-poppers and streamers aside, I do embrace the sentiment of betterment that is bandied about at this time of year – the hope that my failed expectations of the culminating year can be somehow remedied with the dawning of the new. Even though it’s really just another day, it’s also a psychological marker indicating a time to halt the chaos and sniff the fresh breeze of possibility.

I love it. I get to imagine and plan for my ‘perfect life’ and pretend for a short while that I will have the stamina and courage to stick with the plan this time.

What I hate is February. Where the wheels generally fall off the cart. But not this year, no. This coming year will be the year of ‘culminating dreams’ and ‘reaping of the sowing’. Hmm…strike the latter….might not want to go there quite yet. Let’s stick with ‘culminating dreams’, shall we?

So, you can all be witnesses to my resolve to eat fewer doughnuts; be more intentional with my writing; demonstrate altruism with my family and people in general; and to find a way to sneak into my neighbour’s house and permanently immobilise his bagpipes.

Peace and quiet, where art thou?

Every child should come with either an off switch, a volume knob, or at the very least, a pair of ear plugs. For the parent, that is. And not those cheap, flimsy foam things, but the proper, hard-core silicone numbers that block out….well, pretty much everything.

Yes, yes, all clichés, I know. But sitting here on the cusp of week four of the school holidays, I am in awe of the fundamental truth of these pithy little jests.

Seriously, what could be louder than three young boys with new Christmas toys - cap guns, rocket launchers, and animated monster trucks? A bomb? That may sound overly dramatic, but at least the noise would be short and sharp, as opposed to death by continual harassment.

And who said that the male species were not ‘communicators’? I do beg to differ. Whilst ‘me-me-me-knife-and-fork’ (a favourite nonsensical chant of my 3 year old) may mean little to the untrained ear, it sure as heck is still draining to listen to. Over and over.

And over.

Now to be fair, as I fancy myself to be, my increased level of irritability may have something to do with the ongoing concussion issues that I’ve been experiencing. (Of course that would be another story for another day - one that will no doubt buy you a good laugh at my expense.) But head injuries aside, I’m not sure I’m going to make the distance.

How many more sleeps until school goes back?

Okay, maybe patience isn’t one of my strengths. And in hindsight, it is obvious that I have inadvertently revealed how rotten and selfish my innards are, darn it. There’s nothing like a few children around (or thoughts on a page) to highlight personality weaknesses.

I have to stay positive here. Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Or so I’ve heard.

I have realised a thousand times when considering life’s little challenges that it’s all about perspective. Frankly, mine usually errs on the side of intolerance. Maybe I should get a doctor to check that out?...get some antibiotics to clear it up….

Whilst I may, at any given point, have three people speaking to me at the same time, at least they are still talking to me, right? And if I hear the word ‘Mum’ twenty eight times on average every three minutes, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. In a few decades I might be sitting by the phone willing it to ring, desperate to know that my sons still think of me occasionally.

It’s all about seasons, huh?

As if on cue, B3 (a charming addition to our very own Bananas in Pyjamas scenario) has just unleashed a super-soaker in his brother’s bedroom. I wish I were embellishing for dramatic effect.

Time to check into that clinic.