Resolutions.

I never make resolutions at the new year. I see no point in doing so — no one keeps them, myself included. We make all these lofty and demanding goals for ourselves at the beginning of the year, start out with every intention of achieving them, and then the collective momentum inevitably dies around January 15. By the end of the year we're all five pounds heavier, disgusted with ourselves for failing, and once again claiming "the diet begins January 1!"

So stupid.

I'm not big on the resolutions, but I'll admit there's something inspiring about a new year. January brings us a fresh start, a clean slate, an opportunity for reinvention. This appeals greatly to my inner perfectionist, which is probably why every year around this time I get the itch to reorganize my house, buy an entirely new wardrobe, and start using a planner. I want order and peace in my house, my closet, my life. I want to live in Pottery Barn, or at the very least a Real Simple magazine spread. I want a white couch and sparkling floors and big bowls of fresh lemons on my kitchen counter.

I want order and peace and perfection, but what I have is...chaos. Messiness. Lack of control. Snot on almost every item of clothing I own.

I have a kid, a dog, a husband, and a full-time job. Order and peace are not on the menu these days. Dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, fingerprints on every possible surface, a never ending pile of laundry, stacks of bills to be paid...this is what I have to work with right now. And by "right now" I mean "for the next 18 years, at least."

Reconciling my wants and my haves is not easy. I tend to set ridiculous expectations of myself — to be the perfect wife, mother, friend, employee, housekeeper, hostess — and I fail. Over and over again. And of course I do, because you can't have sparkling floors and a white couch when you have a family. You can't work full-time and make a gourmet meal from scratch every night. You can't carve out significant time for your friends when you barely have time to see your husband and child.

I don't need more failure in my life, which is why I typically avoid making resolutions. But what's the difference between making big unattainable goals at the beginning of the year and failing and setting small unattainable goals for yourself every single day and failing?

Yeah, not much. And that's how I arrived at this very important (and yes, quite obvious) conclusion:

Perfection does not exist.

I say that for my benefit, not yours. Although maybe you need to hear it, too?

PERFECTION DOES NOT EXIST.

This is my new mantra. This is my New Year's resolution. To let go of perfect. To stop expecting so much of myself. To just be. To enjoy my family. To embrace the chaos. To stop apologizing for the dust bunnies on my kitchen floor. To not feel bad if dinner consists of hot dogs and frozen green beans again. To laugh. To wear unflattering old sweatpants to the store on Saturdays. To say no when I can't — or don't want to — do something. To accept that romance at this stage of life might just be frozen pizza in front of the tv with the man I love. To do what's best for my family, even if others disagree. To let guests help with the dishes. To leave work at work. To bake a lot, and eat it. To drink a little too much wine once in a while. To let go of the guilt. To smile at the fingerprints coating my walls. To have joy. To praise God in the good and bad, knowing there's a reason for the madness. To let tomorrow worry about itself.

I'm not perfect, and I never will be. But I am perfectly loved by the one who created me. By a husband who adores me, just as I am. By a little boy who thinks I hung the moon. By friends who couldn't care less about dust bunnies. By a family who has always stood by me.

This year, I resolve to be happy. With who I am, where I am, and what I have. Because that's what I think New Year's resolutions — or any resolutions, for that matter — should be about: finding ways to be the happiest, most perfectly YOU version of yourself. There is room for self-improvement, sure, but there is also room for self-acceptance.

And the you-est version of me really likes to eat, so rest assured, there will be no resolving to diet anytime soon. But maybe a little exercise to balance things out a bit...

A relaxing weekend.

In my mind, I woke up this morning at a reasonable hour to a clean house and child who's eyes weren't crusted shut. I didn't find three inches of snow in my yard and I didn't have to cancel brunch with my brother due to Calvin's increasingly red eye. I didn't have to bundle up my son and drag him out into the cold and snow (which I didn't have to spend 15 minutes scraping off my car) or drive 45 minutes across town in treacherous conditions to urgent care. I didn't have to hold my son down so the doctor could examine him and diagnose him with pink eye, and I didn't have to drive another 45 minutes back across town in treacherous conditions to get his prescription filled at the Target near our house. I didn't spend 20 minutes wandering around Target trying to console/entertain/constrain a hungry, cranky little boy who was getting dangerously close to naptime, nor did I find out upon my return to the pharmacy that they didn't actually have the medication I was waiting for. I didn't have to wait even longer while they called other pharmacies in the area to see if they had it, only to determine the closest place was a Walgreens in the opposite direction of my house. I didn't have to drive my overly-tired-darned-near-starving kid to yet another place in treacherous conditions to drop off the prescription, and I didn't have to sit in the parking lot and feed him a random assortment of groceries purchased at Target for lunch while we waited for it to be done. I didn't hear from the Walgreens pharmacist that the Target pharmacist had miscalculated the dose and they'd probably had enough back at Target after all. And I certainly didn't come home to even more snow needing to be shoveled or the task of putting eye drops in an ridiculously exhausted and very crabby boy.

In my mind.

Plight.

I never wanted to be a stay at home mom.

Just to be clear — this isn't going to be one of those "motherhood has changed me forever and suddenly I can't imagine doing anything more fulfilling than staying home with my child" posts, because that's not how I feel. Of course there are many times I would love to stay home to play with and snuggle Calvin all day long (totally unrealistic, he's not a snuggler). But there are also days when motherhood makes me want to run screaming from my house and straight across town into the peace and quiet of my office. Which is neither peaceful nor quiet, but sometimes the insanity of work is preferable to the insanity of parenting a 14 month old. At least my coworkers don't throw food (Tantrums, yes. Food, no.).

Besides, I like working. I need to work, for reasons both financial and personal. I need to see adults I'm not related to every day. I need to have a reason to get dressed in something other than sweats every morning. I need to challenge myself, think critically, and accomplish something on a daily basis that's not related to our home or family. Working allows me to do all of that, plus pay our bills.

But lately I just can't shake the feeling that this is all wrong.

The other night Nate and I went out for a quick dinner together. I was quiet and spacey, so he asked what I was thinking about. My response? "I hate my job." Which isn't even true. Sure, it can be quite frustrating, but all in all I have a pretty sweet gig — great hours, decent pay, good friends, the ability to wear jeans. There are plenty of perks to make up for the less than stellar parts of my job. So, no. That wasn't it. I don't hate my job.

What I hate is that me working means giving someone who is not me the responsibility of parenting my son.

As my Facebook friends know all too well, and as you may have noticed from recent posts, we are having some challenges with Calvin. I'll put it bluntly: My kid is the biter. He's also the screamer, but that seems to have improved a bit in recent weeks, and is less worrisome overall since screaming does not cause physical harm to other children. But for the past few weeks there's been a note on his sheet nearly every day: "Calvin bit two kids today" or "Calvin bit another child today — this time he broke the skin."

I can't even describe to you the feeling I get in my stomach when I read that. It makes me feel physically ill. And has brought me to tears more than once.

I am now going to go all defensive mommy on you and insist you understand that my child is not badly behaved. Or mean spirited. Or living in a home without rules, boundaries, and discipline. He is loving and sweet and wonderful. He is also one, teething, and testing every boundary we set.

It's normal behavior. I know that. My daycare provider knows that. I'm sure the other parents know it, although it has come to my attention recently that they are beginning to take issue with the daily reports saying their child has been bitten by another. I can't blame them, I would be wondering what the heck is going on and why the biter's parents aren't doing something to address their little piranha's behavior.

I wish I knew how to address it. I'm embarrassed, frustrated, and at a loss for answers.

We're working with our daycare provider to find a solution — your input and ideas are welcome, by the way — but, overall, I feel very helpless. Other than one incident at his birthday party, Calvin hasn't bitten anyone in front of us. And there's not much I can do to curb behavior I'm not witnessing.

Which I HATE. I hate that I'm not the one working with him to find other ways of expressing his frustration. I hate that I'm not there to teach him to be gentle with his friends, as I taught him to be with our dog. I hate that all day long someone else is reinforcing his good behaviors and addressing his bad ones.

I hate that such important tasks — tasks that will help shape and mold his character — fall to someone we pay to care for him 45 hours a week. The bulk of his awake time.

I trust our daycare provider. But I'm his mother. I should be the one teaching him right from wrong. I should be there to tell him not to bite, to be gentle, to be kind to his friends. I should be there to hug him after he looks at me with shocked, sad eyes for being scolded. I should be there to apologize to the children he bites, and their parents. I should be there to comfort, to redirect, to teach.

I should be there.

Instead I'm here. At work. Doing something I have to do, for now, but also that I want to do. All while someone else tries to keep my child from sinking his teeth into another.

I never wanted to be a stay at home mom. But I'm beginning to understand the appeal.