I’ve never been one for resolutions, new year or otherwise. Much like anything left on the shelf I resolved to put up last year, they’ll gradually slide until falling down the back of the sofa never to be seen again. And besides, I like to keep an element of surprise in our relationship so to brief Janet on her impending disappointments would only be counter-productive.
But that’s not to say I haven’t set myself some goals for the year ahead. Not life-changing goals, mind. I’m not planning to save the disabled donkeys of Djibouti or scale Kilimanjaro on a quest to find myself. For a start, I don’t even know if Djibouti has disabled donkeys in need of saving, and if I did decide to find myself I need only look to the sofa, in bed or on my hands and knees in Poundland scavenging for the last packet of Chocolate Cheerios.
These are small goals. Stay-at-home dad goals. Goals I can achieve without ever leaving the house.
Buoyed by my porridge making success of 2016, this will be the year I finally master the milk-to-Weetabix ratio at the first time of pouring.
I’m determined to decipher the dark arts of what weather warrants hanging the washing outside. Never again shall I bring clothes back inside wetter than when they went out.
And I’m going to tackle an enigma that has eluded me for nearly a decade. The paradoxical point at which, according to the gospel of Janet, lights become darks.
But this years goal aren’t only about my own fickle foibles, nor are they only about pandering to the pedantry of my paymaster general and her
light dark light blue blouse. Because at six and seven years old I think it’s about time the kids had some aspirations foisted upon them, too.
Unfortuantely Sonny doesn’t do goals, what with them being ‘lame’ and all, but he was prepared to share some of the hopes he wrote down at school this week. Most notable was the hope that Donald Trump doesn’t start World War 3. Less notable was having mastered the armpit fart he wants to end the year being equally proficient with his knees? If nothing else, parents evening should be interesting.
Luca’s only goal is to reach level 100 on a game I didn’t even know he’d downloaded (must remember to check the PEGI rating… and my phone bill).
However they have both agreed to stop calling me John… or George… or Bernard… or Tarquin. Especially Tarquin. At best it was mildly amusing. Briefly. But when shouted across the supermarket it makes me sound like someone from the posh side of town trying way too hard to be the cool stepdad!
In return I’m withdrawing my threat to sign them up to their afterschool club as Penny and Petula.
After giving them a ten, five and two minute warning for lights out, they’ve promised not to react like I’ve just told them they’re adopted.
In return, I’ve promised to never again send them to school in a spotty onsie the Friday before Children in Need.
And with my stay-at-home dad status hanging by a thread, I’d also like to leave a legacy. A true testament to my time in office. Something worthy to look back on and …. sorry, what’s that I hear….
“Four more years … four more years…”
Well, since you mention it, that would see me through my degree course and the kids into secondary school.
Sod the legacy, the people (in my head) have spoken.
I resolve to continue doing what I’m doing. Studying, blogging, stay-at-home dadding and occasionally cleaning. Only bigger. And better. And as Janet has just shouted from t’other room,
“Any chance some of it could be paid!?”
See, that’s what I love about Janet. She has proper goals.