NOT A RESOLUTION

I wrote this in January of 2012, back when Lincoln was a newborn and I was still learning important things—like the fact that dads don’t babysit. I still don’t make New Year’s resolutions, and as January rolls around again, I’ll be sharing a few more “Not a Resolution” posts from different seasons along the way.

---

One of the reasons I’ve never been much for New Year’s resolutions is because some of the things I want to accomplish don’t fit neatly into a single year. Some goals take longer. Some take a lifetime. Writing a book has always felt like one of those things for me.

Part of the problem is that I still don’t know what kind of book I’d want to write. For years, I toyed with the idea of writing a children’s book. That sounded fun—until I realized I’d need to hire an illustrator and also accept the very real possibility that I don’t actually think the way children think. I once considered writing a book about boogers. Kids might like that. I imagined it closing with the line, “You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you cannot wipe your friends under the couch.”
Still think that one has potential.

Around the time Lincoln was a baby, another idea came to me: a book called Things NOT to Say. It would basically be a collection of things I had already said to Amy during our dating life and early years of marriage—things that, in hindsight, should not have been said out loud.

For example, I learned very early on that dads do not “babysit.” I remember telling Amy that if she wanted to run to the store, I wouldn’t mind babysitting Lincoln while she was gone. Apparently, dads parent. They do not babysit. That was an educational moment for me.

There was also the time Amy got genuinely offended when I used the word puke in front of her. In my defense, she’s a medical professional and very familiar with the term. Also, that’s what her supper tasted like. A friend of mine once told me that the fact I’m still married is proof that any marriage can make it. I’m still not entirely sure what he meant by that — but I do think I had enough material back then for at least one bestseller.

Another book idea came from becoming a parent—specifically, all the things I learned and all the things that suddenly terrified me.

My dad has one of the loudest, most obnoxious sneezes of anyone I know. Growing up, it never bothered me. I never flinched. Never jumped. Then Lincoln was born.

About thirty seconds out of the womb, he was crying—and then he sneezed. It wasn’t loud, but his entire body flopped around like it was auditioning for a stunt double. I was convinced something was terribly wrong. I asked the doctor if that was normal. He looked at me like I was the dumbest person in the room and answered my question with a question — a practice I have never appreciated.

“Well,” he said, “do you sneeze?”

I nodded, but what I was thinking was: Yes, but my whole body doesn’t convulse when I do. That was the day I learned that parenting makes you afraid of things like sneezes.

Another fear I developed back then was that I might start crying for no apparent reason. This felt like a legitimate concern. I rarely cried, and I was fairly certain Amy might have a panic attack if I ever did. Still, becoming a dad softened me. I noticed I was more sensitive to things than I used to be, which made absolutely no sense to me at the time.

So there I was — with three solid book ideas. And, of course, the option of an autobiography: I Eat Yellow Snow: The Life of Michael Lynn James Williams.

Will I ever write a book? I honestly don’t know. It still feels like a good idea — just not a resolution.

And for the record… I still don’t cry.