Here's a nutshell rundown of the last five years:
2011: Break-up, make-up, and get back together with Joe only to make-up so frequently that you become pregnant with Mo. Get engaged.
2012: Turn 25, get married, give birth to Mo, attempt to figure out how to be a mom, become increasingly depressed, buy one-way tickets and move to NYC away from everyone you know and love.
2013: Continue to be depressed, continue to figure out how to be a mom, have an emergency stomach surgery, decide that you really hate New York, go to an ungodly expensive therapist, pull yourself out of depression, eat a lot of pizza.
2014: Have another emergency stomach surgery (on Mother's Day, no less), decide you want another baby, get pregnant with said other baby, try to hate New York less, fail miserably, face another New York winter.
2015: Give birth to Edie, eat your own placenta, congratulate your husband on earning his Master's by repetitively sending him NC house listings, welcome the year of the Threenager, convince yourself that you can actually die from exhaustion, buy a home in Charlotte off of the internet site unseen, decide that you're done having children, pack up and ship out to NC.
2016: Constantly wonder if you wasted away the three years you were lucky enough to live in New York, question every single decision you've made over the last five years, continue to fail at parenting, travel to the Bahamas, survive on as little sleep necessary to prevent full mental psychosis, apologize profusely for the color of your house to any and all guests (it's shit brown), listen to your daughter tell you how much she hates living in Charlotte and sob, watch Donald Trump get elected POTUS, decide that hell must be wearing a coat, begin feeling that all-too-familiar ache in your ovaries, kick your own ass because you know better than to definitively declare the state of one's ovaries closed for business, continue to not sleep, continue to fail at parenting, avoid your pulsing ovarian ache (and your husband' penis).
I was going to write a list of things I'd like to accomplish in 2017. Like eat less sugar, drink more water, read two books a month, and maybe swear in front of the children a little less. But, when all is said and done, my expectations are so impossibly low that I will only dare ask of 2017 that it suck a little less than its' predecessor.
Now, if by chance, 2017 decides that it is feeling generous and wants to ensure that we start off on the right foot, I wouldn't be opposed to a little extra sleep and a lot less toddler attitude, ya' feel me?!