A letter to the new year

photo credit: V. Patel

Dear 2023,

I did not eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day.

They're mushy and gross. I've always thought that, the many years I previously choked them down in the name of tradition and luck.

The truth is, I've reached a point in my life where I'd rather be granted time over luck.

I need more time.

I need more time to snuggle my baby girls who are growing up at breakneck speed. I want to soak up all the moments, joyous and/or not, because they are my last babies. I'm holding on tight to those little hands and feet, burying my face in their baby soft hair, constantly kissing their big, fat cheeks and hugging them as hard as one can safely hug an infant, hoping all of it will magically make them stay small and innocent just a little longer. I want so many things for them in their life. I want strangers to stop asking if they're twins when we're out and they're dressed exactly the same...and look exactly the same. 

I need more time to support little brother in his adjustment to middle child. He put up a solid resistance campaign to never cede his baby role, but has recently become more independent...more by force than choice...

He used to come downstairs in the early morning hours and jump in bed with us, but now is almost always met with his little sisters already snuggled up in his spot. Despite the sharp decline in attention and care, he has found the moments to share his life with me...in the car to and from school, at bedtime, while I cook dinner...he's such a funny guy. He always makes me laugh. I miss our adventures together before Kindergarten. Actually I miss all the days before Kindergarten, as our kindergartener has kept us perpetually sick.

I need more time with my eldest. He has begun to spread his wings and navigate his life, alone. He doesn't need me for the little things anymore and is trying to figure out the big things on his own. I've found it harder to parent my preteen than any other age because I haven't found the balance between holding him back and letting him fly. It's terrifying for me, but he seems confident. He is whip smart and seems to be doing better now than I ever did at his age. He's laid back and gets right back up when he falls. He doesn't panic. He just believes he can do stuff or he knows he doesn't want to do stuff and has no problem setting that boundary. He can teach me a lot in these upcoming years. But also, preteens. **dramatic, exasperated sigh**

I need more time with my husband! Our date nights are the farthest apart they've ever been and one or both of us fall asleep on the couch daily after we finally get all the kids to sleep (until they're not anymore). I know it's just the season and that it won't always be like this. I am thankful to have such a great teammate and a person to balance the scale when I start to take a deep dive into ridiculous land. 

I need more time to hang out with my adult, adoptee friends. We only just met in pandemic times and hanging out with them has given me a piece of myself that I didn't know I needed and now that I have it, I never want to lose it. I feel energized, understood and supported. They have woven a safety net that has enabled me to start figuring out who I am in that realm of my life...a place I denied and ignored growing up. A place where I feel much younger, more insecure. I might be the last person to figure it out, but it turns out I am an Asian American woman and my household is Very Asian.

I need more time with my friends. With my family. To travel. To figure out how I will reemerge back in the workplace. To clean out my entire house. To garden. To cook and bake.

And the list goes on forever.

But most of all, somehow, impossibly, I need more time for myself. I used to be in great shape (compared to now). I used to read. I used to write a lot. I used to be funnier ? sleep more. I used to wash my hair regularly and wear clothes I didn't buy at Costco. 

One Christmas at my grandparents' house in the early 90s, I got a Baby Alive doll. I really wanted to feed a doll real food and change a real diaper >insert eye roll emoji<  After lunch, I excitedly mixed up one of the packets of food and sat in my paw paw's La-Z-Boy to feed her. This soft, buzzing noise caught my attention and I tried to figure out where it was coming from. I finally put my ear down to my doll's head, the source of the buzzing. And that was it. The doll's brain malfunctioned. I got a clunker. She worked less than half an hour. I was so bummed out, but I didn't say anything to anyone. I just silently suffered the death of the toy I had asked for so adamantly for Christmas. I even pretended to be happy with it well after it had broken.

Other than being freakishly obsessed with thoroughly reading instruction manuals for new appliances to this day, the point of this story is that I always thought I was unlucky. This was one (traumatic) story in a line of many that supported my theory. 

I always picked the wrong line, was overlooked when stuff was handed out in groups (Milton and cake from Office Space? Anyone?), had things break, watched my teams lose...

And of course, obviously, there were lucky things too and my theory was complete BS, but I was deeply focused on the unlucky events because it reinforced that I was just born unlucky. 

I don't believe this anymore. Just enough to fear not eating black-eyed peas on New Years. 

So please, 2023. Don't make me look like an ass for boldly proclaiming, in writing, that I didn't protect myself for the year by eating the world's worst legume. 

Also, they're beans, not peas...

January has come and gone, so time definitely won't slow down, but I hope you'll grant me strength and the courage to make the most of the time that's left.

Cheers!

J