My New Year’s resolution is still in full effect. I have vowed to be more active. Not in an exercise way — please, have you met me? — but in a bucking-routine sort of way. I want to kick myself off the easy path.
When you have a toddler, nothing seems easy. The only clear path is a well-trodden one. Rather than explore, you go to the same loud restaurant where no one will shoot you evil looks when your kid goes streaking past the buffet bar. You visit the same parks, ones where the street is far enough away from the playground equipment to enhance your odds of catching your child before he gleefully runs into traffic. You make sure you’re home from any activity by 1 p.m. on weekends because the lack of a nap would make the difference between your toddler and a whistling kettle indistinguishable. All bedtimes are nonnegotiable. Sorry, Grandpa, but can you die tomorrow? I really have to get this kid home ASAP.
Following the path of least resistance feels like the only sane thing to do to ensure the survival of both the hyperactive child and the dead-tired parents. But the problem is that I’ve never been a path-of-least-resistance type of person. In fact, I often court resistance. There is something about the challenge, the new, the unexplored, the uncertainty, that makes me feel alive. Falling into this routine of motherhood has made me fall away from myself. Yes, it feels impossible and pointless to strap my child into a car seat after having worked a full day and drive 45 minutes just to try a new ice cream shop that opened downtown, only to have to turn around 15 minutes later to get home before bedtime — especially because there are dishes to be washed and bills to pay. It’s crazy. Nuts. Stupid. But that’s the kind of thing I intend to do a lot more of in 2015.
I’ve always loved exploring new places. There is nothing quite so satisfying as finding a hidden gem in your town. In my pre-prenatal years, my favorite way to discover such spots was by crawl. During my younger years, this crawl was most often the pub kind. As I entered the workforce, I became a huge advocate of the cafe crawl. A moderately crowded cafe with good music and a comfy chair goes a long way for a writer.
Since having my son, I rarely type at cafes anymore. I rarely go out at all — at least not as I used to. I have given up my crawl to watch my son master another kind.
Last week, I had pickup duty at my son’s day care. True to my resolution, I knew I wanted to do something fun and different rather than simply fall into our 2014 routine of putting on “Doc McStuffins” while I made dinner, followed by stories and bedtime.
It was a crisp, cold evening, and the freeze hit my brain like a jolt of genius. It was time for the great hot cocoa crawl of 2015.
I found three places online that served hot chocolate nearby. It was time to determine which was best!
By the time we reached the first location, it had just closed. The second location is now just a foundation with no building.
My son was tired of being in the car and beginning to wail, when I passed the strip mall with the third hot chocolate location. The parking lot seemed like the perfect place to hang out if getting mugged is on your bucket list. Was it worth getting my son out of his seat to go in the place that looked as if a doughnut shop and a strip club had a baby and then named it Small Pox?
Nah.
It was then that I recalled a diner a few blocks from where I live. How had I forgotten? The local diner served hot cocoa in a bowl, topped with whipped cream, chocolate chips and chocolate syrup. I had only experienced this cocoa concoction once before — when I was pregnant.
My son was all smiles when I helped him lift the bowl of hot chocolate to his lips, whipped cream settling on his nose.
It’s a good reminder that sometimes the best places are the ones closest to home.