As we start a new year, people tend to look back and reflect on what has passed.
Having lost my dad earlier this year, I must admit that I am rather relieved to see the back of 2019 – in the hope of happier times to come.
He slipped away in spring, and it always struck me as ironic that we lost Dad at a time when even nature seemed hopeful, with the daffodils in full bloom.
I am also aware of how lucky I am, in part due to my job.
I am privileged to speak to people every day who have been faced with extraordinary circumstances, and chosen to flourish in the face of trauma far greater than my own.
With that in mind, I am looking ahead to what 2020 will hold.
There is no resolution to be a better mum, or a more patient parent at the helm of a crafting activity which includes glitter.
I admire those who can commit to finally reading that parenting book, while simultaneously signing up to a juice diet detox.
But if this year has taught me anything, it’s that my best is good enough. When a friend asked my advice on returning to work, I told her the wisest course of action was to lower her standards at home.
That might sound a little dismal, but bear with me.
I have learned that it simply isn’t possible to keep on top of the washing, be present as a mum, hoover the stairs and clean out the vegetable drawer in the fridge.
I reason that as long as the house is vaguely clean, the rest of the chaos can wait.
I have been known to batch cook at 10pm, in the hope that it would somehow make me a better mum.
It led to a surplus of soup and partly burned lasagne, alongside a mountain of washing up.
Although mum guilt still snaps at my heels most days, I am secure in the knowledge that I have been a fairly decent parent thus far.
There is, however, one change, which should hopefully be occurring in our household.
No, not baby number two – we’re still recovering from a solid year of sleep deprivation.
Instead, I hope that 2020 will see me spend a lot more time with my other half.
It has often struck me that we are like ships in the night, discussing little else except Reuben and whose turn it is to walk the dog.
In the early days, our life revolved around our new addition.
But Reuben is no longer a tiny bundle clasped to my chest.
It is perhaps time that I cut the apron strings ever so slightly and enjoy the odd meal out which doesn’t include crayons and a high chair.
It is difficult not to be totally consumed by the feat which is taking care of a young child, with their many milestones and somewhat maddening phases.
But in dedicating every spare second to our son, we have forgotten to take time for ourselves.
You cannot expect to continue as normal upon having a baby, but nor can you risk losing each other completely.
We have vowed to go out once a month, and discuss something other than potty training and the latest episode of Peppa Pig.
We may well fall asleep before dessert, but the thought is there.
My other half has a dry sense of humour, a secret love of history and possesses endless patience. He is also notoriously private, and he therefore dreads this column.
But here it is in black and white, my resolution to catch up with the person who has held my hand through the onslaught of 2019.
The date is firmly set in the diary, although the choice of restaurant is still in debate.
So if you can recommend the perfect venue for two knackered parents, let me know.
