Accepting you have a problem is the first step...

So, how's everybody's first week after New Year's going? Are we all enjoying going to the gym, eating low-fat, high-fiber meals, and abstaining from alcohol (at least until we become so fed up with our new regime, we return to our gluttonous ways, having our brownies a la mode, with a big scoop of guilt)? Thought so.

You all know I set the bar very, very low for New Year's resolutions. Yes, I'm still flossing, but 2009's calcium supplementation plan did not take. So I will make a second attempt and hope the bottle of pills I have stashed in the van will help that (boy that's a phrase, when taken out of context, that can get Child Protective Services sent to my door). My other resolution is actually the opposite of a resolution, it's an anti-resolution. I have resolved to not change a damn thing, accept certain aspects of my life, and let them go. Otherwise known as stop beating the shit out of myself for things that are never going to change. Wanna know what they are? Of course you do!

Dog hair - Nothing sends me into a burning rage more than getting the kids all Eskimo-ed up in their layers of fleece, only to have them start wrestling on the floor and wind up looking like a trio of used Swiffer sweepers when they are finished. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, is there anything dog hair is more magnetically attracted to than fleece? I have started traveling with a roll of painter's tape in the van to quickly de-hair the kids before they go off to school. This behavior will not stop, since I refuse to let them go off looking like their mother hoards dogs, but what I will stop doing is cringing with shame every time someone shows up at my house unannounced, or before I've had a chance to vacuum. We have a dog, he sheds, there fore, there will always be tumbleweeds of dog hair somewhere, unless the cleaning lady has just left, and then they don't become visible until 30 minutes later. I need to accept that. Or invent a dog-sized plastic suit with hole for his snout.

My wardrobe - This year, rather than lamenting the fact that I wear a baseball hat and yoga pants 70% of the workweek - which you can really tell sticks in my craw, since I've only mentioned it 8,000 times - I will accept the fact that I would rather use the 30 minutes it would take to put myself together to write or take a nap. I really just don't care all that much about what anyone thinks I look like except H, and I manage to pull a 1950's housewife make-over a few minutes before he gets home, blowing out the bangs and throwing on some mascara. I figure I really haven't "let myself go if I can still fit into my skinny jeans, I just choose not to wear them to carpool. If the yoga pants show up on Saturday night, then we have a problem.

Napping - Yes, you read that correctly, I nap. Yeah, I said it. I wake up at five-fucking-o-clock in the morning, people. I am also the type of person who, like a six year-old, needs nine hours of sleep to function well. I try my best to go to bed early, but with H getting home after eight most nights, it's more like ten o'clock, since I want to, you know, see my husband. So I can either over-caffeinate, which turns me into a jittery, overeacting lunatic ("You put your dirty socks where????"), or I can lie down on the couch for twenty minutes each afternoon while LM is imprisoned in his room, and not turn into Mommy Dearest. I used to feel guilty about it and tried to do it as little as possible. Now I don't care who knows, since advertising will only decrease the number of nap-interrupting phone calls between twelve-thirty and twelve-fifty.

The van - Yes, that is a picture of the van's front seat. Let's take a tour, shall we? To your right is my purse, which lives in the van and causes me to sprint out of the house to grab my wallet anytime I'm ordering something online or takeout. It also produces melted and/or frozen MAC lipsticks depending on the season. Under that are two library books which were due back in November. The white bag contains my new 2011 calendar and planner, which I have not yet filled out. No wonder I missed a dentist appointment last week. Moving left, we see the ubiquitous empty water bottle. I used to think my slovenly ways saved me some hassle, since whenever the kids were thirsty, I simply unearthed a half-empty Poland Spring that was rolling around dangerously near the accelerator. Now with all this BPA nonsense, I have to worry I've given my kids cancer from all the hot, plastic-y water they've drunk over the years, and I have added, empty, aluminum bottles to the rattling in the back of the van, which remind me of those stupid, blue, metal beer bottles. Further left, you will see my dry cleaning that was pulled out of the dry cleaning bag, in an effort to separate H's shirts before heading to the cheap Korean dry cleaner who ruins all my stuff. Lastly, the beverage holder, with the ever-present DD cup, half-full of cold hazelnut coffee. Next to it? A Greek yogurt container and real spoon from the kitchen, which will at some point, wind up in the back seat and begin clanging against those water bottles.

Getting in the van each morning usually raises my blood pressure ten points, as I envision some of my friends, who have immaculate cars (I'm looking at you, Murphy), but I am done caring. Unless I plan on throwing a cocktail party in the van soon, why the hell do I care? Sure, I'll still clean it out whenever I have to drive someone else's kid home so they don't think we actually live in the van, which we could with all the clothes and edibles, but I'm done beating myself up about it. I leave the van a wreck so I have time to clean up all the dog hair in the house.

So there you have it. I have been trying so hard this week to stick with this new theory of acceptance. My mantra is, "let it go". I have too much real stuff to keep me up at night to worry about all of this bullshit. And besides, if I cleaned out the van, I wouldn't have my calcium supplements to crash into the water bottles, to create a sound as soothing as wind chimes.