Do we really need to ring in the new year thinking about all the things we should be doing better?  We already have these thoughts every day.

• I should lay out my clothes the night before so that the hour I have with the kids in the morning is better quality time . . .
• I need to find a new chicken recipe for the kids that has less oil . . .
• I *really* have to be more patient with Little Miss Thing even though she is a fire-breathing dragon . . .

And those are just the ones I had on my way to work this morning.

We read blogs (I hope!) and books and we ask for advice.  We are always “fixing” ourselves as parents and as people.

We worry about too many hours spent away from the kids.  Too much yelling.  And I definitely worry about spending too much time putting on makeup in front of my daughter — whom I want more than anything to believe she is worthy and powerful regardless of her appearance.

I could go on forever.  I know you can, too.  We do this to ourselves every goddamn day.  It’s like having a radio station called “Am I OK?” that plays in a perpetual loop inside our brains forever after we deliver these pocket-sized piglets.

But this year, I’m shutting that station off on January 1st.

For one 24-hour period, I will not think about how much weight I still need to lose.  (I can’t count that high anyways — why do you think I went into law.)

I will not think about why my 4-year-old keeps talking about death or assume it’s because I’m doing something wrong.

I will not read a single piece on de-cluttering my house to de-clutter my mind.  (I’ll admit that I saved the link. But I won’t read it on January 1st.)

Instead, I will usher in a new year with hope, for all of us, that things will just be OK.  And that we will give ourselves permission to feel like we are OK.

Even if our kids watch TV, love makeup, and eat frozen chicken nuggets.  (Or eat makeup.)

I saw a post on my feed yesterday for expecting moms about “five things you can do to avoid pooping while you are in labor.”

I’m sorry, what?

So I have to carry this thing around for nine months and watch my body morph from large human to small orca.  Push for countless hours to get it out.  Then spend the rest of my life worrying about whether I’m doing an adequate job keeping it alive and happy.

And now you say I also have to worry about whether I poop a little while I’m ripping the southern region apart to produce a new life?

No.

Most women poop while in labor.

And then, when it’s all over and we’re posting those beautiful glowing photos with our sleeping little lambs, having wiped the sweat and runny mascara off our cheeks, we are *just* starting to feel the hemorrhoids.

Those heinous, painful fuckers hang around for weeks. Months, even.

And more than two years after delivering the Sheep, I still pee a little about 65% of the time when I sneeze.

And it’s all fine.

This year, I resolve one thing.  I will not spend another minute of my life trying to hide or minimize my motherhood.  My womanhood.  My personhood.

This morning, I dropped the yogurt that I was planning to stash in my bag for work.  After bouncing on the kitchen floor, it splattered all over my husband’s navy wool suit pants.  I apologized but also I laughed – I couldn’t help it.  We all drop shit.  He was both amused and perceptibly annoyed.

Without skipping a beat, Little Miss Thing, that fantastic little dragon, told her daddy: “It’s not important that you have pink yogurt all over your pants.  What matters is that you are a good person.”

Touché, my sweet.

Happy New Year, indeed.