CBB

Holidays are a snap for me.

Over the decades, I’ve collected the requisite ceramic rabbits, felt pumpkins, assorted candles, patriotic bunting, gleaming angels, and frosted froufrou. Seasonal recipes are tried and true. Wrapping paper and coordinating ribbons are easily reachable. Grocery lists, methodically assembled, remind me which stores carry certain items.

I meet the deadlines.

Everyone is delighted.

But New Year’s Eve is a personal killer.

I’m at a loss. Nervous beyond belief before clocks strike midnight. It has nothing to do with party hats and horns. It’s the resolution hype. On January 1st, I need a transformation plan: a brand new me in twelve months.

Experts warn against unreasonable expectations. Who are they kidding? I excel at overthinking about what I know I should attempt. In fact, I’ve started berating myself as soon as the last Christmas present is opened. I’m already pretty sure about what I won’t accomplish by midnight next year.

Then, out of nowhere, Netflix saved me.

Over the holidays, we watched their series, Movies That Made Us, about legendary films that almost failed for countless reasons. Yet these productions pushed on, despite incredible odds. For Jurassic Park, a special effects team member explained they’d send dinosaur clips to Steven Spielberg for approval. His frequent response: CBB. Could be better.

The expression sailed right by Cliff, who subscribes to a good enough theory, meaning Don’t worry. Be happy. But Maggie and I sat up straight. For perfectionists (Insert both our names.), CBB was a prayer answered. Cue the doves.

I asked her about CBB the next day. She said, “It was a nudge. He didn’t mean what they sent was bad. It was not not praise. It meant he held them to a higher standard. He knew the way to improve was already inside them. It was up to them to find it. When you’re told something like that, you’ll always keep trying.”

I loved listening to her explain it. Any mother would. After all, I was with her in the grocery store when she wailed because the cookie broke—the tragedy that defied all explanations. Not even the second cookie offered by the baker could calm her. As a toddler, hers was a one-dot world, not understanding life was a multi-dot experience. Her next dot needed to be a nap. That pause allowed her to see the promise in a new cookie. She lives with assurance now, stepping over and around broken cookies.

Spielberg understood the power of a pause, of reassembling the pieces. He knew the results would keep improving. He’d keep watching clip after clip.

Success is not a straight line.

It takes a while to perfectly coordinate all the parts of a charging dinosaur.

Let alone me.

So instead of approaching 2022 as a climb with treacherous peaks and canyons sure to upend me, I plan to stroll each day. Along the way, I’ll pause, reconsider, and jot myself a necessary note: CBB .

Like Spielberg, I’ll know.

Or Maggie will mention it in her CBB note to me.