Resolutions for others vary in success

Note: This column appears in the 12/29/09 edition of the Goshen News.

Here it comes. That annual flood of wishful thinking and good intentions is upon us.

Pardon my cynicism, but I haven’t noticed a lot of actual results coming from our half-hearted attempts at self-reformation. Once upon a time, some genius somewhere constructed a bandwagon called “New Year’s Resolutions,” and now we are all afraid of being labeled slugs if we don’t jump on. After all, the neighbors are joining up, and we don’t want to be caught sitting around in our PJs, eating that last Christmas cookie when that one rolls by, do we?

Maybe it’s the red in my hair. Maybe it’s the stubborn Yoder streak emerging, I don’t know. Whatever it is, I’m having my yearly fit of rebellion wherein I dig in my heels and refuse to go along with the status quo. Like our mothers always said, “If your friends all wanted to jump off a cliff…”

It was from this nonconformist stance that I attempted something different last year. Instead of making a list of resolutions for myself that will just end up lining the birdcage, I decided to do some resolving for others. It would, I figured, be just as effective, and it would be a whole lot more fun.

Boy, was I right. It was every bit as effective as I thought it would be, which is to say, not much. It sure was fun, though.

In order to scientifically quantify the results of last year’s resolutions, I glanced back over the list to refresh my memory. There was, I noted, a request registered with Congress for a printing press to be sent posthaste and forthwith.

Feeling duty bound to do my part to stimulate the local economy, I figured this would be one quick way to do it. In this spirit, I asked that they utilize my local delivery guy who is always telling me to “see what brown can do for me.”

Doggone it. So far, “brown” has done nothing, there’s no influx of green, and now I’ve got the blues because my wardrobe fund is still languishing.

Another resolution that I’d drafted had to do with the boys’ penchant for running our 50-gallon hot water heater bone dry. Therefore, I proposed that all baths would be no more than six inches deep, and all showers would be moderate in duration (say, three minutes).

Apparently, they still think this is Sea World and they’re dolphins because there remains an inordinate amount of frolicking and splashing. Not surprisingly, this is followed by hollering and speaking in tongues by the unlucky person who attempts to shower after they’ve cycled through.

All of this has led to numerous trips into the basement by their father. There, he hits the shut-off valve, cutting off their hot water, and waits for the shouting to begin. Judging by the satisfied smirk he’s wearing when he comes back up, I think he secretly enjoys those little forays down below in his slippers.

The other resolution I’d proposed had to do with the laundry and was written specifically for two of our number. Instead of waving their four strong, unbroken arms about whene’er they discovered certain garments still reposing in the hamper, they should, I advised, use those arms to actually load and run the machines themselves.

If I was a TV anchorwoman, my report would go something like this, “This just in. In a stunning turn of events, Mrs. Schrock reports that two of the formerly incapacitated arms are now being used sporadically to launder uniforms. While she cannot yet entrust delicates to the owner of the limbs due to sorting inexperience, she is optimistic that complete mastery of this skill is now a real possibility. Meanwhile, she says that any attempts to reach her at home will be futile as she will be ensconced at her local coffee shop, crying tears of joy into her mocha.”

So fifty percent of one piddly resolution has panned out. With my confidence in that process thoroughly shaken, the only thing I’ve got the gumption to do is to throw down a few resolutions that I know for a fact I can keep.

The first one on that list is some serious turkey consumption. At Thanksgiving, a friend introduced us to the wonders of herb rubbed turkey.

Oh. My. Goodness. I can never look a plain turkey in the eye again. Forget dreams of sugar plums, whatever those are. Instead, I have visions of juicy meat, delightfully flavored gravy, and enough leftovers to feed a small regiment. Which, of course, they will.

I also firmly resolve to stay up way too late, to take naps, to watch too many movies, and to forget for a day or two what street clothes feel like. It’ll be Jammie Town over here if I have anything to say about it.

Lastly, I resolve to play games, to laugh out loud (a lot), and to count my blessings instead of dialing up the orphanage when the boys get to wrestling again. If this works out, I plan to repeat it all again next year.

Oh, Silent Night (but not too silent, please)

“I resolve that every Christmas should be so relaxing.”

There. That’s my opening salvo regarding that dreaded annual list. While I don’t hold much to New Year’s resolutions as for the most part they are wholly ineffective and end up discarded like so much crumpled up wrapping paper, this would be one that I could get behind.

My half of the family tree, you see, resides 850 miles away. We made the trek last year with Mr. Schrock (a.k.a. Dale, Jr.) and the pit crew leading the charge. Knowing that next year the Schrock half of the tree would be heading for the hills (make that the mountains) of Tennessee, we decided to stay put this year and to keep it low key.

As the Schrock hoo-ha was a fait accompli by the end of November, that left us free and clear to actually discover the meaning of that old Christmas carol, “Silent Night.” Well, silence is a relative term in a household of four boys who are brimming with Christmas spirit, but you know what I mean.

My stated intent from the get-go was that this would be Jammie Town over here, starting with our traditional slumber party on Christmas Eve. Mission accomplished. It was Pajama Town, alright, population six.

With a stack of movies, the annual Subway platter, and a raft of other goodies, we hopped into our PJs and went kerplunk here, here, here, and over there. Four movies, innumerable snacks, and four stockings later, we headed for bed, feeling festive and happy as clams, the early-morning hour not withstanding.

When you’re tied to three or four different schedules year round, having the freedom to sleep in with no one leaving the premises seems like pure, unadulterated luxury. Follow that sleep-in with an enormous, herb-rubbed turkey; mashed potatoes and gravy; and three different kinds of pie, and you realize that this is how life was meant to be lived.

Oh, and did I mention that we were still in our jammies?

It wasn’t until Christmas night that we finally rediscovered our street clothes and went to spend some time with a few other family members who were also around for the holidays. Then it was home again, home again, jiggity-jog to hop back into our you-know-whats and to get back to work on that stack of movies.

Saturday, it was more of the same. Movies, lounging, snacks, and leftovers, only breaking the cycle to exchange those PJs for a fresh set.

By Saturday evening, I told Mr. Schrock that we were so relaxed, I didn’t see how we were ever going to be able to slither out of bed come Monday morning and head back to our respective jobs. He grimaced and then proceeded to announce one of our semiannual meetings of the Krispy Kreme Club to be held the next morning.

Yippee!! As we are charter members and their number one fans, we experienced a miraculous infusion of the giddy-up necessary to head to Mishawaka over the snow-packed roads, and we made our way (sans Braves One and Two) to our local headquarters.

I say sans braves because, after one more scuffle over who got which toothpaste tube, those two departed in the predawn darkness for the youth group’s annual winter retreat with B1 going as a junior high leader and B2 going as himself, a senior high kid.

It hit me as we were galloping toward the doughnut store that if God hadn’t sent our surprise package three years ago (the little papoose), it would’ve just been the Chief and I with B3 making the trek to parts west. How quiet…

I said as much to the tribe as I sat sipping coffee while they drank their chocolate. There he sat, the little surprise gift, blue eyes shining, mouth encrusted with sugar from the two doughnuts he had going simultaneously. “Thank you for coming!” I said to him.

“You’re welcome,” he said in a matter of fact tone, and went back to chewing the sprinkles off the top.

Tonight it will be even quieter. B3 will be gone overnight at a friend’s house. If it weren’t for B4, we would have our first brush with an empty nest. That’s a cold wind blowing for sure, and I’m not ready for it.

So today, right now, I’m thankful that there will be at least some noise on this all-too-silent night. I’m thankful for days in our jammies. I’m happy that we watched way too many movies, that we stayed up way too late and ate far too much. I’m thrilled that for one more year, we were all together, healthy and happy, just we six.

I’m thankful (I am!) for the magic of ‘silent nights’ that aren’t actually very silent at all, because I know that one day they will be.

Happy New Year!