I have this really nasty habit of overemphasizing my downfalls. Because I feel unworthy of success or maybe more like, I don’t know what to do with the actual feelings of not failing. Because failure, success and the art of not failing are three separate things and we have the right to acknowledge them as separate entities.
Failure is if my kids are in bed wondering if I love them.
Not succeeding is when I run out of granola bars and give my children 14 different dairy products for school snack.
“Have this Light Yoplait, a cheese stick and some….cheese. Have a great day!”
Success is reading three books, preparing a well balanced meal AND heading into bedtime without threatening to donate their entire dress up bin to the Salvation Army if they don’t get their stuff off the floor.
Seriously…pick up your shit, kids.
While we are so hell bent on our own failure, real failure so rarely occurs.
You’re not failing if you’re 15 minutes late to school.
You’re not failing if you had cereal for dinner
Or if you laughed when a beach ball knocked your toddler over
Or if you felt like you needed to run away
Or wondered if you’re even cut out for parenting.
It’s not success, but, it sure as shit isn’t failure.
It’s human and it’s ok.
At least 100 times a day, I wonder what I’m doing wrong and completely disregard everything I’ve done right.
It’s such a bullshit way to live
Because my imperfection is success. I’ve successfully been a human-fucking-being. Fallible and aware. And trying.
Maybe even kinda-sorta succeeding.
Or maybe not.
Pass the Cheetos, kids. We’re out of protein again.
And I don’t even care that my kids clothes NEVER match.
Even though you might care.
We can care about different things.
Like I think organic bananas are full of shit. HAVE YOU SEEN HOW THICK THE PEEL IS?
But, I also was raised by MTV…so what do I know?
Maybe a lot.
Maybe I know a lot.
And maybe you do too.
I bet you do.
But there’s no medal for Motherhood and the only way you know you got it somewhat right is if your kids show up for Thanksgiving.
Or quote you while laughing and sharing a bottle of wine.
Or climb up the stairs to tell you they love you even after you’ve yelled as loud as fucking possible that their teeth are going to turn green and fall out if they don’t brush them.
Especially after all that dairy.
“Mama, I love you.”
“I love you too. I love you guys the most.”