Squish

That’s the sound my shoes made as they hit the few and far between bare spots on the ground when I went out yesterday. I personally think squish is such a lovely onomatopoeia-ic type of word, especially when it is in reference to the sound my shoes make in the mud when the snow is melting. It has so much meaning behind it, the biggest and best one being that Spring is indeed springing, in it’s own squishy way. It’s about time too…I’ve had it with the snow and cold (surprised? Of course you’re not). It started far too early as it was, and it almost seems poised to stay late but I’m trying to keep an optimistic outlook. After all, my shoes did go squish.

There are other signs that Spring is finally in the air. The days are becoming longer and warmer, which means the sap is running…maple sugar season is upon us! And it’s a bit early, which is also good. A couple of days ago, son #2 saw a flock of geeks flying overhead…geeks, by the way, is Séamusese for geese. In other words, the Canadian Geese are on the wing back to northern shores. Soon enough, the littles will come running to tell me that the geeks are flying over the house again, as they hear the distinctive honks for the umpteenth time in an hour.

Other tell tale signs have yet to emerge; there is still far too much snow for any kind of flower to pop up. I’m really hoping by the beginning of April, but I suppose we’ll see…Winter might just have one more good blow in her. It’s also still too early for the Spring Peepers to begin their evening serenades. That is a sound I always look forward to.

But despite those things that have yet to emerge, adding their own bit of flavour to the overall stew of Springness, my favourite…at least for now…is the squishiness. The sound, smell, and sight of it all brings me more joy than you could possibly know. Until the kids bring all that squishiness into my kitchen and leave it all over my floor, prompting me to mop it ten times in a day, of course.

 

Finbar’s Folly

The title of this entry really does sound like it could be the name of an Irish Tune, doesn’t it? Perhaps one day, when I am exceptionally proficient at playing my tin whistle, and adept enough to actually write a tune, I’ll write one and name it “Finbar’s Folly”. Until then, however, I’m thinking I should stick to blogging…which reminds me that I’m supposed to be writing. Onward with today’s random ramblings in written form!

Finbar is five, as of this past January. While not old by anyone’s standards (except perhaps his own), he is still getting bigger by leaps and bounds, much to my chagrin. After all, just yesterday he was still my baby boy. Tempus Fugit…far too quickly for my liking. But even in his five yearness, he has somehow, acquired wisdom in his own, Finny way, in the form of revelations. It is those revelations that I’d like to share, for they really are somewhat humourous.

From the time he was about 2 1/2, Finbar was convinced that he was born in Ireland. Now, mind, I’ve never even been to Ireland, so unless there is something I don’t know, he wasn’t born there. Although, it would make my wish of moving there much more of a reality if his merely saying it made it so. Oh well…

As I was saying, Finbar always thought he was born in Ireland. If someone were to ask him from whence he originally came, he would respond most confidently: “Ireland!!” You may wonder why Fin came to this conclusion, for I admit it is rather odd. Well, let me explain it to you (as if you thought I wouldn’t!!). Quite some time ago, when Finbar was just a wee one, we were visiting friends in New Hampshire. One of those friends is a transplant from Northern Ireland, and the moment she saw Fin, she exclaimed (in my very best Northern Irish accent): “Oh! Doesn’t he have the map of Ireland on his face!!” From that time forward, whenever she saw him, she made sure to remind him of how Irish he looked, and as soon as he was old enough to understand what it meant, he was convinced he was indeed born on the Emerald Isle. He would tell everyone he could find about his self concocted heritage. You can imagine their surprise when I told them, in a hushed tone so I didn’t crush his little spirit, that he was actually born in Ohio. At least the explanation made for humourous small talk.

Unfortunately, the days of Finbar telling people he was born in Ireland are over. Apparently, when he turned 5, he was infused with enough wisdom to realise that he really wasn’t. It’s one of those sad “growing up” tragedies, when certain cutenesses fall by the wayside to be replaced by bigger boy behaviour. I always hate when that happens…it’s almost like the end of a favourite television show. You can reminisce but it’s never like it was.

In the case of Fin, he has indeed moved on, as his fiveishness dictates. He has become a big boy (at least by HIS standards!), which apparently affords little time for such silliness. He very grudgingly states that he was born in Ohio now when pressed, with a certain air of regret. Regret, of course, until his eyes light up and his face breaks into a huge smile…

“But some day I am going to move to Finland, and be the king, because FINland belongs to ME!”

It’s those little gems that make it all worthwile.

 

Izzy’s Going Wilde!!

Alright, I know…bad play on words. But I am still feeling poetical these days, and since I’ve been reading more Wilde than usual (ahem…), I thought I post a few of his poems, which are always well worth the read. Oscar Wilde was simply brilliant, at least in my not so humble opinion. And since I am so nice, I’ll share my obsession with all of you! Without further ado….the poetry of Oscar Wilde…or at least a very small sampling of it!

MADONNA MIA

LILY-GIRL, not made for this world’s pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

AVE MARIA PLENA GRATIA

WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.

THE GRAVE OF KEATS

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,
He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:
Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery!
O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!
O poet-painter of our English Land!
Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand:
And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,
As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

HER VOICE

THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,–
It shall be, I said, for eternity
‘Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love’s web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,–
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,–you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.

And now it is lunch time which means I must get something worth eating in front of Mr Izz…but doesn’t all of that just make you glad to be alive? Such beautiful lines….SIGH! I know, I really am pathetic, aren’t I?

 

In a Yeats Mood

Not much to say here these days. Just too busy and too stressed and too….wordless? Yeah…that almost sums it up. So, I’ve decided to keep letting my favourite poets say it all for me. Today, I’m in a William Butler Yeats mood…actually, I’m almost always in a Yeats mood, but even more so today. So those of you that might be particular to his poetry are in for a bit of a treat! Here are a few of my favourites!

THE EVERLASTING VOICES

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still;
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.

THE HEART OF THE WOMAN

O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.

O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.

O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.

THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.

THE SORROW OF LOVE

THE brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man’s image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man’s image and his cry.

Hopefully this will satiate my Yeatsean desires! Although I’m sure it won’t. But I won’t bore you all with any more of his poetry for today, though. Instead, I’ll go read them for myself. And maybe I’ll get some time to actually write something of my own, instead of relying on the poets of old to write it for me. Maybe…but I have to admit I am enjoying this immensely. The poets of old are little read anymore, I fear. Their works need to be dug out of obscurity and again put into the limelight they deserve. Maybe then we will be able to get back so much of what we have lost…but then again, maybe I’m just far too sentimental.

 

Lines Written in Early Spring

More about spring…and a bit more by William Wordsworth. Yes, I do have a one track mind these days. For the most part…

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

 

Craving For Spring

I don’t think that it’s hard to know what’s on my mind right now..and since D.H. Lawrence says it far better than I, I’ll let him do just that:

I wish it were spring in the world.

Let it be spring!
Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap!
Come, rush of creation!
Come, life! surge through this mass of mortification!
Come, sweep away these exquisite, ghastly first-flowers,
which are rather last-flowers!
Come, thaw down their cool portentousness, dissolve them:
snowdrops, straight, death-veined exhalations of white and purple crocuses,
flowers of the penumbra, issue of corruption, nourished in mortification,
jets of exquisite finality;
Come, spring, make havoc of them!

I trample on the snowdrops, it gives me pleasure to tread down the jonquils,
to destroy the chill Lent lilies;
for I am sick of them, their faint-bloodedness,
slow-blooded, icy-fleshed, portentous.

I want the fine, kindling wine-sap of spring,
gold, and of inconceivably fine, quintessential brightness,
rare almost as beams, yet overwhelmingly potent,
strong like the greatest force of world-balancing.

This is the same that picks up the harvest of wheat
and rocks it, tons of grain, on the ripening wind;
the same that dangles the globe-shaped pleiads of fruit
temptingly in mid-air, between a playful thumb and finger;
oh, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, whirls the pear-bloom,
upon us, and apple- and almond- and apricot- and quince-blossom,
storms and cumulus clouds of all imaginable blossom
about our bewildered faces,
though we do not worship.

I wish it were spring
cunningly blowing on the fallen sparks, odds and ends of the old, scattered fire,
and kindling shapely little conflagrations
curious long-legged foals, and wide-eared calves, and naked sparrow-bubs.

I wish that spring
would start the thundering traffic of feet
new feet on the earth, beating with impatience.

I wish it were spring, thundering
delicate, tender spring.
I wish these brittle, frost-lovely flowers of passionate, mysterious corruption
were not yet to come still more from the still-flickering discontent.

Oh, in the spring, the bluebell bows him down for very exuberance,
exulting with secret warm excess,
bowed down with his inner magnificence!

Oh, yes, the gush of spring is strong enough
to toss the globe of earth like a ball on a water-jet
dancing sportfully;
as you see a tiny celluloid ball tossing on a squirt of water
for men to shoot at, penny-a-time, in a booth at a fair.

The gush of spring is strong enough
to play with the globe of earth like a ball on a fountain;
At the same time it opens the tiny hands of the hazel
with such infinite patience.
The power of the rising, golden, all-creative sap could take the earth
and heave it off among the stars, into the invisible;
the same sets the throstle at sunset on a bough
singing against the blackbird;
comes out in the hesitating tremor of the primrose,
and betrays its candour in the round white strawberry flower,
is dignified in the foxglove, like a Red-Indian brave.

Ah come, come quickly, spring!
come and lift us towards our culmination, we myriads;
we who have never flowered, like patient cactuses.
Come and lift us to our end, to blossom, bring us to our summer
we who are winter-weary in the winter of the of the world.
Come making the chaffinch nests hollow and cosy,
come and soften the willow buds till they are puffed and furred,
then blow them over with gold.
Coma and cajole the gawky colt’s-foot flowers.

Come quickly, and vindicate us.
against too much death.
Come quickly, and stir the rotten globe of the world from within,
burst it with germination, with world anew.
Come now, to us, your adherents, who cannot flower from the ice.
All the world gleams with the lilies of death the Unconquerable,
but come, give us our turn.
Enough of the virgins and lilies, of passionate, suffocating perfume of corruption,
no more narcissus perfume, lily harlots, the blades of sensation
piercing the flesh to blossom of death.
Have done, have done with this shuddering, delicious business
of thrilling ruin in the flesh, of pungent passion, of rare, death-edged ecstasy.
Give us our turn, give us a chance, let our hour strike,
O soon, soon!
Let the darkness turn violet with rich dawn.
Let the darkness be warmed, warmed through to a ruddy violet,
incipient purpling towards summer in the world of the heart of man.

Are the violets already here!
Show me! I tremble so much to hear it, that even now
on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die.
Show me the violets that are out.

Oh, if it be true, and the living darkness of the blood of man is purpling with violets,
if the violets are coming out from under the rack of men, winter-rotten and fallen,
we shall have spring.
Pray not to die on this Pisgah blossoming with violets.
Pray to live through.
If you catch a whiff of violets from the darkness of the shadow of man
it will be spring in the world,
it will be spring in the world of the living;
wonderment organising itself, heralding itself with the violets,
stirring of new seasons.

Ah, do not let me die on the brink of such anticipation!
Worse, let me not deceive myself.

 

Question of the Day!

This morning, as I sat at my desk trying to weed out my inbox (my inbox is very reflective of my life in general…it’s very disorganised and needs to be cleaned out), Victoria, who is 6, was sitting next to me playing with one of her dolls. She was singing and having the doll walk around on my desk, and for the most part, ignoring the fact that I was sitting next to her. This was fine with me, because I really did need to get my inbox back to some manageable state.

So there we were, she was singing and playing, and I was weeding and trying to figure out if that email from August really was that important to save or not. All of a sudden, she stops playing and says “Mom?” I stop what I’m doing and look over at her and ask her what she needs.

“Do husbands really do that?” she asks.
“Do what?” I ask in return….I am wondering if she thought I had been paying attention to her while she was playing, and so I was feeling rather guilty that I hadn’t been. She just looks at me for a moments with her eyes wide (a normal expression for her, I might add), which makes me uncomfortable because apparently I was supposed to be paying attention…caught in the act of nonattention yet again! After about 30 seconds, she finally gets more specific:

“Do husbands really throw their wives up in the air?” she innocently asks.

Huh? Where in the WORLD did she come up with that one? I think back from the past few days, wondering if she might have watched something that might give her the idea that husbands just walk around, throwing their wives up into the air. Peter Pan was the last thing, and I don’t think Mr Darling threw Mrs Darling up in the air even once. So scratch that idea. I’m a bit muddled, because since I don’t know where she got such an idea, I have no idea how to answer. Aside from no…which of course is the obvious answer. It’s not like Mr Izz goes around throwing me up in the air on a regular basis (thank God!).

“Ummmm….no, Toria. Husbands don’t do that for real.” I answer, and start to laugh. She begins to laugh with me, and says:

“Ok, I was just wondering!”
“Where did you come up with such a thing?” I ask, but she says she was just kidding and skipped off, presumably in search of some other fun game. So I still have NO idea where she came up with that, but I suppose I’ll have to be content in that. Until then, I’m sure that her dolls will be thrown up into the air on a regular basis, just because she thinks it’s fun. I just hope that when she is old enough to be married, it’s not a stipulation for her future husband. She might be in trouble if that is indeed the case.

 

Stick a Fork in me…I’m done

I’ve been abandoned. Really, I have. Yesterday morning, at about 04:30 EST, Mr Izz packed up his way cool rental car and drove off into the…umm…almost sunrise, headed for a distant and exotic Eastern land………ok, fine, he went to New Hampshire on business, but it sounded a whole lot better the other way. But no matter where he went or why, I have still been abandoned. Honestly, this isn’t a really big deal in general. As I’ve said in previous posts, things tend to be more laid back when he is gone. We have things like pancakes for dinner. It’s cool. But the other side of this isn’t really very cool. Almost every time he leaves on business, something happens. Not always something big, but something nonetheless. One time, Victoria tipped over in the chair she was standing on (yes, I know….bad mommy moment), and conveniently broke her fall with her head as it smacked into the cast iron radiator. The lump that very quickly emerged was a sight to behold. Another time, we had a chimney fire….it was small, but still very annoying. Then, of course, the children misbehave more than usual and my stress levels steadily climb until he comes back. The only consolation is that I know he knows he owes me big. Huge. But this time, what Mr Izz owes is bigger than big. It’s bordering on gargantuan. I’m thinking that deserted tropical island may suffice. But I’ll think more about that one. I may be able to come up with something better. Believe me, I’m going to deserve it.  

As I watched Mr Izz leave yesterday morning, I was well aware that a storm was brewing…literally. We were supposed to have lots of wind and some snow. The gusts were supposed to be close to 50mph, which meant the hatches had to be battened down yet again (the wind storms we’ve had this year have been amazingly frequent. I’m not amused). Apparently more than I had anticipated for when I turned on the water this morning to make coffee (ahhhhh….coffee…..), not even air came out of the faucet. Great, I thought; the pipes are frozen. Heaving a very large sigh, I went into the big boys’ room to get Christopher, who was still a-snooze in his bed.  Since his help was needed to remedy the situation at hand, I woke him up and told him the joyous news. He took it about as well as I did, and grumbled his way out of bed to see what could be done. I could torture you with the gory details of what we did, and how it didn’t work, but I think saying the normal avenues were uneventful will more than suffice. Still not a drop from any faucet in the house. Plenty more agitation and stress on my part, but still no water. More grumbling, from both mother and son, ending with another phone call to Mr Izz (he had been called earlier, but no help had been gotten from him…he just said to call him when the water was back on…….maybe my island can be near Tahiti……). I calmly tell him that the heater under the house didn’t work this time (oh yes…this is a regular occurrence), so he then says that perhaps we should put the heater into the well house, near the pump. Now, mind, I had said I thought it was frozen at the pump earlier that morning (by this time, we’re almost at 3pm), but I was told that it wasn’t. As it turned out, that is exactly where it was frozen (a bit of hopping up and down in irritation). Within an hour the water was again up and running.  Now, I could go off onto an “I told you so!!” type tangent, but since Mr Izz isn’t one of my regular readers, I’ll keep my speech for when he gets back. This is advantageous for those of you who do read my blog on a regular basis, for you won’t be bored to tears by my tantrum. But it will also be advantageous  for me, for by the time he arrives on my doorstep, I will have the whole thing perfected…each word stressed for effect; each gesticulation timed perfectly. My diatribe will be a work of art! I’m sure he’ll appreciate it as such.  

I’m just happy the water is back on. but I am not looking forward to round 2 (or maybe 22 at this point…it’s been a long winter) tomorrow. The forecast is calling for more wind and about 10-12 inches of snow and ice. While I really do hate snow, I will say it is a good insulator. That’s helpful in terms of keeping pipes from freezing up…or pumps as was the case today. But I am sure I am not alone when I say I am more than ready for winter to be over. I could use a dose of Spring right about now, but since that seems to be anything but a priority right now, I’ll just go for a glass or two of wine….maybe even three. If I have enough, I can pretend it’s Spring. Cheers!  

 

‘Tis the Season to Have Birthdays…

Fa la la la laaaa…la la la laaaaaaaa!

Yes, my dear readers, it is Birthday Season! You may be familiar with the Christmas season, or the ski season, or maybe even maple sugaring season. Here at Casa Izz, we have what is fondly known as Birthday Season. What exactly does that mean, you might ask. Well, let me tell you all about it…before I have to bake another cake.

As you may have guessed (if you’ve read the “About Me” portion of my blog, and know how many children reside at Casa Izz), we celebrate quite a few birthdays here. You know, because, like, I’m a nice mom and each child has their own special day on their birthday, which means they don’t have to do their daily chores and they get to pick out their dinner and dessert for that evening. The kids tend to think this is pretty cool, and I really don’t mind doing it…most of the time. Please recall the title of this post. Here at Casa Izz, for reasons unbeknownst to anyone but God Himself, more than half of the Izzlets were born in the months of Januray (4 Izzlets) and February (2 Izzlets), which is how the term Birthday Season came into existence. Every time you turn around, there is yet another birthday to celebrate. As I sit down each week to make out the weekly menu, these birthdays must be taken into consideration; the children whose birthdays are coming up within the next week must be quizzed on what they would like for dinner and for their special dessert…one year almost every child decided to have tacos for their birthday dinner, so that year Birthday Season was aptly renamed Taco Season. I still am unable to look at a taco without feeling a little queasy…but back to what I was saying. Everything must be done…presents must be purchased, desserts must be made, birthday child must be given the day off…you see how stressful this can be for someone as disorganised as I am! Especially when you realise that each child likes to be different from the last. No one really wants just cake. Our birthday desserts range from cake to brownie sundaes to cherry pie, etc. Have you ever tried to put 12 candles into milk shakes? It’s not an easy task, let me tell you. But what can I say…I have creative children (they must take after ME! ).

This is why I have been somewhat missing in action as of late. I have no time to write…whenever I try, I have to wrap a present or bake a dessert or bread chicken filets. There is always something. Hmm…isn’t that always my excuse?

An older priest once said that birthdays should not be celebrated. Now, before you get all bent out of shape over that, listen to his reasoning. It was his contention that children had no right to their birthday for it was their mother that did all the work to bring them into the world to begin with. Therefore, it should be the mother’s celebration rather than the child’s. That seems perfectly logical to me. I’d be up for 11 birthday celebrations; 11 days off (which is 11 more than I get now), 11 days of catering to ME (again, which is 11 more than I usually get). Sounds utterly perfect, don’t you think? But, of course, there is no way the Izzlets would allow such a thing. They love to celebrate the day they were born, and really, so do I. It’s not that hectic. Besides, my birthday is in March. I’ll get them all back then (insert evil, maniacal laughter…..). 

 

A No Resolutions Resolution…or something like that anyway.

‘Tis the season…to make resolutions. After a wild month or so of partying and living it up, most people are feeling guilty and use the New Year as the means to fix all of those things they did during the end of the last year. It’s a New Year, and therefore a new slate. Yeah, ok. Whatever. I once read some statistic somewhere that only like 5% of people who make New Year’s resolutions actually keep those resolutions. In fact, by the end of January, they’ve already slipped down that slippery slope right back into the bad habits they had so carefully forged the 360 or so days before…depending on how long they actually lasted. Sound familiar? I know it does to me…all too. I’m tired of the feelings of failure and incompetence when I give up after day…ahem…5 or 6. So this year, my resolution is not to make any resolutions. Now, don’t pull those semantics on me, saying that my resolution to not make resolutions is, in essence, a resolution. I could care less. I’m still doing it, unless I can come up with a better idea. Why set myself up for another failure? It’s not worth the time and effort. I never do what I’ve set out to do to begin with, so what Is the point? Oh wait…I feel a mega-super idea coming on…

Alright, now, bear with me here…what if I resolve to do all of those things that I really don’t want to do? I mean, if I’m not going to do what I resolve to do anyway, maybe this will work kind of like reverse psychology…I resolve to do something horrible and bad, and since it’s a New Year’s resolution, I’m not going to end up fulfilling that resolution anyway, that only means that I’ll end up doing the right thing by default. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of this before! It’s pure genius!! The logic is flawless…there is no way it won’t work because it has always worked in the opposite way for everyone, everywhere. If it does work, I can write a book about it…”Making New Year’s Resolutions. Using Reverse Psychology”!! The possibilities are endless…this is so exciting! Oh…anyway…right, I’m still writing a blog post here, aren’t I? Ok, so without further ado, here are Izzy’s New Year’s Resolutions for 2008: The Reverse Psychological Edition.

1) I resolve to be horribly impatient. Patience may be virtuous, but I personally find it’s virtuosity to be totally overrated. Besides, I’ve been impatient for so long, I’ve gotten it down to a science. You might say I’ve perfected the art. That, in of itself, would render me JUST in the eyes of men, so sayeth Plato.

2) I resolve to sit on the couch and watch things like Jerry Springer all day long. Exercise, schmexercise…who needs it when there are such cool things on the telly? Plus, if exercise is something I need to think more about, I can just tune in to Fitness TV. Thinking about all the exercise they’re doing should burn at least a few calories,. Brilliant idea, no?

3) I resolve to spend absolutely no time, whatsoever, with my children. I have 11 chldren…surely with that large of a number, they can entertain each other without me having to participate. Éamon wants a story read to him? He can learn to read it for himself, for heaven’s sake! He’s a smart kid…and two really isn’t all that young to learn how to read. Séamus and Finbar need a bath?, Well, good grief! Why on earth can’t they do it themselves? Yeah, they very well could make it too hot, and very possibly get a wee bit scalded, but how does one learn without trial and error? I have better things to do (like watch Jerry Springer…I do have to make sure I fulfill Resolution #2) then to do these things with m y children. They can either do it themselves, or do without. I really don’t see why that would be a problem.

4) I resolve to not read a decent book all year. Books are useless. It takes too much time to read them, and I’d have to have the patience of a saint to do it. That would interfere with Resolution #1, which of course is problematic. Books such as Harlequin Romances are fine…or maybe a Kitty Kelley unauthorized biography…but nothing substantial. Who needs Hamlet when one can have Sven and his abnormally large pectoral muscles?

5) Lastly, I resolve to continue on my downward spiral into disorganizational oblivion. Being disorganized has definite advantages. No one asks you to borrow anything because you won’t be able to find what they need anyway, for it will have been sucked into the Abyss of the Unknown, from which nothing ever leaves. Nor are you ever asked to do anything because everyone knows you won’t remember the time and place to help (you would have written down the information, but of course you didn’t know where your date book was, and although you told yourself you would find it so you could write down the pertinent information about where and when, you forgot to look for it because you became too caught up in that rather large basket of stuff that needed to be put away…it had been sitting there for about 2 months and you were sure that the spatula (that you needed to make grilled cheese with) that had been lost one evening after trying to use it to pry off some gum from the wall, was indeed in there, but as you went through the basket, you found a pair of socks that needed to be washed, which meant you first had to find the laundry detergent…you get the idea). All of those piled up papers and books made rather nice walls (so long as they don’t’ topple over…). I won’t have to homeschool (and therefore spend time with the kids, violating Resolution #3), because I won’t remember where I put the books. And we can have chocolate pudding for dinner because I’ll have forgotten to write out my list before going to the grocery store. If anything, that last bit will make me very popular amongst the younger crowd here at Casa Izz! Life will be good…in an exceptionally cluttered and disorganized sort of way.

I think 5 resolutions should be sufficient. I don’t want to make it too easy to fulfill (because remember, I really don’t want to do these things), nor do I want to make it too difficult…after all, I have to make it look like I’m actually trying, right?

Now to get this typed up and posted (I always write my posts out in a notebook first). Although, typing would interfere with Resolution #1 (typing takes loads of patience…especially when you have to do it on the laptop rather than the regular computer), as well as Resolution #2 (typing will take up valuable telly time). Oooooo!!! I’ve got it! I’ll make one of the kids type it out. That way I’ll still be keeping Resolution #’s 1 and 2, as well as keep Resolution #3. Brilliant! This may end up being too easy…that really could be a problem…

Happy New Year, everyone!