There’s always something a little melancholy about the end of the year for me. I see other bloggers feeling it too, even if they’re not all entirely aware of it.

While there’s always the exciting promise of the new year ahead, it’s tempered with the minor regrets of the current year – goals not yet achieved, organizational projects tossed to the curb, taxes still not in order.

I did not sell a screenplay. I did not even attempt to write a screenplay. I did not make my bed more than a dozen times. I did not get a whole lot of use out of that zoo membership. I did not read The New Yorker avidly each week (but boy I feel cool just thinking about it). I did not turn off the TV nearly enough. I did not “work my abs.”

In fact, I did not exercise even once. Unless you count the time the elevator was out and I walked the four flights up to my place.

Yeah actually, I think I will count that.

So I work so hard each year to remind myself of all things that happened that make me feel good, the little things that add up if you think hard enough. Like keeping my head mostly together during an insanely trying year. Remembering a few birthdays and anniversaries here and there. Making it to forty which is way better than Jesus ever did, that slacker. Calling my grandmother just because. Hearing from a long-lost high school friend. Taking a big honkin’ leap of faith into the freelance arena at a time when all signs point to You are Insane. Having a family that loves our girls more than life.

And then I remember that even the really teeny things have value, those little snapshots that might be forgotten if it weren’t for cameras and blogs and a few functioning brain cells.

Like baking cookies with Thalia until 9PM and letting her dip them in the chocolate all by herself. And watching Sage taste snow or throw leaves or grab a cat’s tail for the first time.

There’s always time for The New Yorker I guess. Next year. Or not.

Happy happy everyone.