On having a (not) perfect life…

Let’s get some things straight, friends, before we get too far along on this little blog journey together. Shall we? So far I’ve written a lengthy post on books I’ve read this Spring, and a lengthy post on fun places I’ve been in San Antonio. All true. I did read those books and go to those places. And I plan to write much more about books I read, places I go, adventures I’m on… but lean in for just a second because I’m going to tell you a secret. Ready? Those things are not the full story. I’m not perfect. HAHAHAHA as if!  Those who know me know this is a laughable statement to make. They know, full well, my shortcomings and my failures. They live with them every day.

But, as funny as it seems to state the obvious about my obviously ordinary and non-perfect life,  it occurs to me while reading through blogs (and even my own vision of what this blog will be) that what we put out to the world is often the most polished, most happy, most wonderful parts of our lives, and real life has its ups and downs. There is a popular food blog that I love reading. I look forward to every post because the food looks so wonderful and the author talks about her life. She’s a professional who makes a lot of money. She has two adorable children and a handsome husband, she writes about the things she makes, the interesting clothes she wears, the big house she decorates. Sometimes I read it and I think: I am really not living up here. I feel inadequate at times. I know I will never be as fashionable, as accomplished, as perfect in every way. Except she’s not perfect in every way. I know that, but I don’t know it.

And so before I get too far down the road on this blog that I’m creating in my mind, I feel it necessary to remind you that the blog is an escape for me. I plan to write about the interesting places I go, the great things I’m reading, the deep thoughts I’m thinking, the exciting life events that are coming my way. I’m not planning to write about my failures, my problems, my stresses, my pains. I hope you enjoy the things I write here. But please, if you ever read something on here that seems wonderful and exciting, remember that it’s not the full story.  Don’t let anything you read here (or any blog for that matter) let you, for even one second think that you are not living up, that you are not wonderful and amazing and awesome and fighting the good fight, because you are. I promise you, my life is full of failings, full if imperfection, full of “not quite right.”

I have a handsome husband, and I love to talk about him and how great he is. But we bicker and argue. Of course we do. We get all in a dither about little things and big things. We have Champagne Sundays every Sunday, and I love to talk about them because they’re great. I look forward to them every single week. But we struggle like all couples do: to find our way, to forgive, to be fair.

I love posting great pictures of my boys on Facebook and Instagram. Lots of parents do this. Smiley, happy, livin’ the dream. Matching shirts, toothy grins. The thing is, I don’t really get around to taking pictures of tempter tantrums and crazy mishaps involving a toddler learning how to take his diaper off despite said diaper being secured by packing tape, baby sized underwear, a onesie and a pair of pajamas trying to deter him. Nobody wants to post about that, and nobody wants to see it. I promise you, YOU DO NOT WANT TO SEE IT. IT INVOLVES DIAPER CONTENTS NOT IN THE DIAPER.

I have a cooking blog. And on it, I post delicious looking deliciousness. But I don’t post about these muffins I made one time that tasted like body odor or the Colombian beans I burned so badly we had to throw the pot away. I don’t want to post about those things for the same reason lots of people don’t want to post about our failures: we don’t like to admit them, we don’t want to relive them, they are not fun to think about.

And even thought it’s kind of funny, most days I don’t really want to write about how, when I was transferring my stuff from one bag to another, a bunch of stale cheerios fell out. My child came over and picked one up and ate it and I thought “eh. It’s not going to hurt him.” But then I felt like a bad mother. I felt like the mother on the one blog I read wouldn’t have stray Cheerios in her purse. And if she did, she would be appalled if her child ate one. I was not. I’m telling you this so you know the real person behind this blog (or at least a little bit more about her.) I’m not planning to fill up this space with stories about what we wear on laundry day (you don’t want to know) or the current state of my kitchen floor. I won’t post about squabbles or fights with anyone. I won’t be posting, usually, about the insecurities I feel or the failure I worry about or the struggles that make me cry. It’s just not the plan for this blog. But before too many posts go up about exciting things we’re doing and experiencing and creating and living, I must remind you, along with myself, that that’s not the full story. It never is.

Blogs never tell the full story. Even blogs whose brand is to be “real”  and to show you “real life” and to tell you the true story about being imperfect and flawed are not telling the full story. I promise you. Everybody keeps the real stuff very, very close. Including me. Even the carefully curated list of my so-called “imperfections” (above) was curated by me, at a certain point in time to make a point. (A point which, at this moment I’m not positive I’m making very well). Ahem. The point is this. It’s simple. This is a “personal” blog, but it’s not the full story. It’s some of the story, and I hope those parts are enough to make you want to read it and comment and engage with it, but it’s what I choose to write, when I choose to write it, about whatever faction of life I deem blog-worthy. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go… someone has wriggled out of his diaper… again. Until next time.

For further reading. Stop instagramming your perfect life.  

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