Becoming a Better Anne

I have blogged a lot in the past, but this year I've really wanted to become a serious writer. This, of course, hints immediately at my big problem: there are so many things I want to do. Even as I type this, they creep around in the back of my mind. Take down the Christmas tree, figure out what Jelly is messing with behind you, vacuum the Greta-fur out of the chair, re-become proficient at Spanish, finish that half-painted Painting hanging over Jelly (who it turns out is smearing yogurt in her car seat), write a book, move the light-starved citrus trees down to the basement, research whether the DEA is going to break down your door and shoot your dog if you set your citrus trees down under a grow light, oh, and deal with that car seat.
For a long time I thought about waiting until things calmed down a bit (i.e. until Jelly and whatever other children are grown and out of the house, I become independently wealthy, and Greta is living to an unnatural old age in amazing shape cared for by a team of walkers, groomers and wizards (to brew the anti-aging elixir that keeps her forever young). Then I talked to my mom about the many times that the tasks at the back of my mind rear up and overwhelm me. She told me that my sainted Grandma Dot, at age 87, sat in her well worn easy chair one day and said, "I can look in any direction and see forty things that I need to do that I haven't gotten to yet." This was not one of my mom's better pep talks.
So I've been thinking about the things I want to do and realized that most of the time, I don't actually want to do them. I want to have done them. I picture myself in my easy chair at 87 saying, "I can look in any direction and see 40 things that I have mastered, overcome, accomplished, created. I am QUEEN OF ALL I SEE. Young, cartoonishly-handsome male servant, fetch me my hot chocolate!"

At least, that's how I used to picture it.
It's starting to slowly dawn on me that my Grandma had figured out a lot more than I have.
Doing things. Wanting to do things. Those things are hard for someone with pretty major depression and anxiety. But this last year, a chubby little hand has reached up and held my nose to the grindstone. I've worked harder, under harder conditions, than I've ever worked before. I've cried with my head resting on a chubby little belly as my anxiety washed over me, wave after wave of cold terror churning through me. I've been dowsed in hot, salty baby tears on sleepless nights, when I'm the only one whose rocking embrace can bring calm. I've laughed along with sudden, unexpected gales of giggles, laughed so hard that I've cried. And I've felt deeper, more grateful, exquisite joy than ever before in sharing an imperfect life with an imperfect (but still very, very perfect) baby.

I'm seeing that there's more to life than having done things.
So I've decided to embrace the process of achieving my dreams. Face the mundane with a smile on my face, or at least a complaint that makes people laugh. Sweep the kitchen floor more than once the whole year. In short, become a better Anne.

And since I wanted to become a serious writer this year, I've decided to share it all with you.