I love resolutions. I hate resolutions.

And I can’t help but see, this year, how Mary’s involved in it for me.

This January 1 marks my tenth year as a mother. My oldest child — a daughter who’s almost as tall as I am, has a sassy streak and a sense of humor, and looks so much like my husband that it’s a bit uncanny — was born on this feast, this last day of the Octave of Christmas, feast of Mary, and the beginning of the year.

It’s almost like God was making sure I would always have to take January 1 seriously, no matter what. No, scratch that. It’s almost like Mary was making sure I was paying attention.

I have a whole category of resolutions…years ago, I would make a New Month’s Resolution. Goal-making is a struggle I face…is it worth it?

Well, maybe.

The crusty old lady inside me rolls her eyes, having seen it all before, the ups and downs, the wins and fails, the haves and have-nots.

But the perky cheerleader can’t help but get a little riled up, a little excited, a little inspired by the blank new slate.

So what if the family calendar isn’t done (again)? So what if I slept a whole week instead of working away like I planned to do? So what if my to-do list is daunting and scary and perhaps even impossible?

There’s still hope.

And maybe that’s why I always come back to resolutions. Because of the hope they represent.

If you’re making resolutions, you’re not giving up.

I suspect I will be making resolutions of some sort this year, even if it’s just “stay sane” and “keep on blogging.” (Hey, there’s a baby due. And some other big things.) Maybe I’ll even resurrect those monthly resolutions as a way to remind myself to keep at it…