Most of my favorite writing happens in bed. Each morning promises something different, and it’s a promise—not a swear, not an oath, not a hint. A promise feels more honest; it feels more hopeful.
This particular morning, there’s a round window high above me, casting the most perfect light on Hudson’s profile. His nose is short. I guess I’ve never realized that before. Hudson’s in our bed because we’re visiting family, and we’re sharing a room. He woke up in his pack-and-play too early, and hoping to get another half hour of sleep or so, we brought him here.
So he’s sleeping great, but I’m not. Because I’m busy. Busy contemplating his short little nose, and the way his fingers curl when he inhales, and the way his blue blanket tucks under his chin. It’s the best. It’s hard to imagine, a week after the most beautiful Christmas, wanting anything more than this.
Well, maybe just a little bit more space in the bed; I’m personally a little uncomfortable. Hudson sleeps diagonally, so I have a tiny crescent-shaped sliver to fit my body into. I can’t find a good angle for my arm and my phone, so I’m having to hold my phone up high and crane my neck strangely to see what I type. It’s not sustainable; at some point, I’ll need to turn over.
Hudson was the best thing about 2019. I do not say this in an obligatory way. He was the best thing. He’d run into our closet and hide behind Jeremy’s clothes and yell, “Peezaboo!” when we walked by. He’d hear the sound of an airplane outside our window and mimic take-off with his hand. He has a pot belly. He lifts his shirt to proudly show you his bellybutton. He says please after everything, even the word, no.
“Hudson, Do you want more asparagus?”
See what I mean? He is the best thing.
But just here, as I’m wishing the pillow was slightly more underneath my neck while my boy snores beside me, there was a lot about this year that I’d like to fix. Straighten. Smooth. This year that I wanted too many things and pursued too few of them. I leaned into creature comforts. I slept in later than I needed to. Watched tv when I should have been writing. Did chores when I should have been learning. Spent money I should have been saving. I dialed 2019 in. I found my corner of the suburbs and leaned in. I got comfortable and I hated it. I hated that part.
Stymied by longing and enveloped by complacency, I accomplished very little this year. If each of three major wants were a straight line, and straight lines go on and on in different directions forever, it’s like I spend the whole year chasing the terminus of all three. It’s no way to catch your destiny.
But the way I know that Hudson has my cheeks, or the way I know the mornings make promises, I know that 2020 is going to be better. In the upcoming year, I’m going to loop my desire lines around a crochet hook. I’m going to take the learning and growing and longing of 2019 and I’m going thread them together. I’m going to wear a braid, not a chain. 2020’s going to be different and I’m ready for it to be great. Onward.