When The Reality Doesn’t Meet The Expectations
The other day, I’d managed to use my super-mom ninja skills to sneak away from my whole family to brush my teeth in private, and I was standing there at the sink, brushing away, thinking (and snorting to myself) about how funny it was that before kids, I had this vision of myself.
Where are my house elves?
I was going to be that mom who got up at 5 AM to run the neighborhood, then be showered and dressed to make waffles with fresh-squeezed orange juice at 6 AM, and then I’d be smiling and humming to myself at the counter at 7 AM while fixing nutritious, healthy lunches for my perfect little angels who would be helping each other learn to read and put puzzles together. (The dishes either would’ve magically done themselves, or I would have done them with a big smile while thinking how blessed I was to have this opportunity to do the dishes for my perfect little family.) I would be dressed fashionably, with cutely wider but still trimmed and toned hips that I loved because their wider, post-childbirth width reflected the time I spent growing and nurturing my offspring in my womb, and the time I refused drugs and had a beautiful natural delivery of all of them. After everyone was out the door, I’d sling my fashionable shoulder bag on, smile and hum to myself as I loaded myself into my car for a satisfying, meaningful day of work, and I would be totally put together and have the perfect charming life.
Except the reality is a lot more chaotic, with shrieking and spilling and shouting, and jelly on a peanut butter sandwich counts as fruit in the kids’ lunchboxes, and I have saggy writer butt and my idea of “fashionable” is anything without holes or stains in it (mental note: I need to go shopping for new fashionable clothes). I also have a c-section scar that’s been used three times (with drugs, thank you very much), and my idea of “perfect” and “charming” has shifted a little.
Because, I was thinking to myself as I was brushing my teeth, my life really is perfect for me, and it’s the right kind of charming for me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I have to have ninja skills to find time to brush my teeth.
Although I would seriously appreciate it if paper towel and car commercials could capture a bit more of my reality, because I’m quite certain that’s where my disillusions have come from. So I was thinking I should perhaps write a few letters…
And that’s about the time my husband walked into the bathroom, looked at me with a perfectly straight face, and said, “So, is it easier to clean up cat poop when it’s fresh, or after it’s dried? Because the cat missed the litter box again.”
Perfect, charmed life.
I has it.
