Dear 2011,

I don’t know how well you know 2010. Frankly, I’m hoping that you two weren’t that close, since I have very little to say about her that isn’t unpleasant. 2010 was not the nicest of years as far as I could tell. It’s been [...]]]> With apologies to Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow.…

Dear 2011,

I don’t know how well you know 2010. Frankly, I’m hoping that you two weren’t that close, since I have very little to say about her that isn’t unpleasant. 2010 was not the nicest of years as far as I could tell. It’s been a jolly long 365 days in her company. I’ve had plenty of sleepless nights, some caused of course by the new addition to our family, but many others caused by worry, depression and illness.

I though that 2010 and I were rubbing along quite well to begin with: there was some difficulty to start with, given my pregnancy-related SPD and the general difficulties of having a newborn, particularly when juggling said newborn with a toddler who already owns the universe and everything in it. I confess I thought that, given my circumstances, I’d get a bit of sympathy, so was disappointed to find that 2010 just got on with things, not even slowing to give me a chance to find my feet. When I thought I might be getting somewhere, I’d find that there was a sneaky event I hadn’t seen coming. I missed birthdays and other important events. I found myself packing for holidays a few hours before departure, which is totally not me. I have been constantly fighting things from the back foot, which has always made me very uncomfortable.

As if that isn’t enough, I’ve had such a rough few months, getting used to looking after a newborn, yet instead of offering a helping hand, 2010 has thrown rotten weather at me. The kind of weather that keeps you stuck inside slowly going mad trying to keep your children entertained. It has given me the kind of weather in which presents get mislaid and gifts arrive late. The kind of weather that leaves in it’s wake a plethora of germs and maladies that have all struck with their full force, meaning that my poor girls have been ill for months whilst I have spent half of our Christmas break in bed.

The DH and I were talking earlier today about how incredibly hard it has been this year to juggle life and love and children. We’ve barely had any time together:  I’ve been tied up with children almost 24 hours a day and DH with work, trying to keep us all afloat. When either of us has a moment free we are too tired to want to spend it doing anything other than sleeping. Those wits we have left at the end of the day are spent negotiating with the Pocket Dictator who, now here vocabulary is exploding by the hour, is rapidly becoming a Three-va (Three-year-old-Diva). And the Dimpled One seems to lurch from one clingy spell to the next, so rapidly is she following in her older sister’s footsteps. 2010 hasn’t given us much of a chance to stop and enjoy them growing, since it went by so quickly we’ve been under pressure just trying to keep up.

DH and I have managed to successfully pack and ship our girls overseas on not one but two trips, and our marriage has remained intact, though perhaps a little dented. We have repeatedly packed up car, girls and dog to go to weddings and friends and family events, all without complaint. We have screened them in sun and clothed them in rain. We have repeatedly cleaned kitchen floors of half-eaten meals, changed endless nappies, mopped up seemingly “accidents” and tried to stay cheerful. We have chosen schools and put money in their savings accounts. We have innoculated them and bought them new clothes. Yet every day we are faced with a new challenge: the two-year-old who wants to pick her own clothes, who will not wear a coat, evevn in the rain, so that strangers think of calling Social Services because no parent would let a child out in the rain/snow/wind without a coat. The baby who has a death wish and sees every set of stairs as a slalom course. The dog who just loves to go psycho at the neighbours whilst you are tryint to bring two children four shopping bags and a pushchair in the front door.

To top it all, 2010 gave me a family death two days before Christmas, so that I find one of my first duties of 2011, the very first time I have left my children overnight, will be to head up to Yorkshire for my dear Gran’s funeral. Clearly this is not something I will hold against you. But you can understand why I have little that is good to say about 2010. In fact that is what I would like from you, 2011, if you can manage it. I would like you to do a better job than 2010. I’m not asking for massive allowances, I would just like a better year.

A year in which I actually begin to feel better about myself, perhaps even stop taking anti-depressants.
A year in which my hips begin to do their job fully so that I stop feeling like a rickety chair the whole time. The only permanent reminder of pregnancy should be the children I’m raising, not the old-lady bones I have.
A year in which I find some purposeful work I can do when not raising The Girls, so I feel that I can contribute something to our family.
A year in which I become a better blogger, a better writer.
A year in which I am a better, more attentive wife, a nicer, less shouty mother and a more reasonable friend and human being.

If you don’t mind helping out, I’d really appreciate it.

Thanks in advance,

DG x

PS. I do hope that 2010 isn’t your best friend since childhood now that I’ve said all those things about her. It would be awful for me to be spouting all this vitriol about 2010 only hours before you do the Big Handover  to find that the two of you have the same philosophy on food, love and life in general. If that’s the case, I can only apologise for hurting your feelings and wait for the pain to rain down for the next 365 days.

This post was written for Friday Club at Notes from Home. Click on the link to take you to the other posts.

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