Yesterday I was all set to publish what I think it is a pretty good post about how much I’m loving this whole living-off-the-garden, whole foods, simply organic mindset I’ve got going recently.
But it didn’t happen. Maybe later.
Today I thought I might crank out a top 10 post since I’ve got bunches floating around in my cavernous mind: top 10 baby products worth the investment, top 10 summer on a budget, top 10 ways to sneak vegetables into your kids’ food.
But I don’t think you all (and from what I understand there are more than 39 of you) blog readers hop over here just to read something that is, honestly, me trying to market my thoughts.
I didn’t start this for that. Not that I won’t do it sometimes, we’re a one income family, remember?
But that’s not what’s real. Really me. Really what this blog is meant to be about.
It’s about my journey in mothering, my path that is sometimes rockier than those hills my mom is currently climbing on the AT in Pennsylvania.
It’s about the real stuff that’s lurking behind the images we post on facebook or pinterest. It’s about the gunk that’s growing on our shower curtains, stopping up our drains, lingering under the toaster oven.
What’s real is that I melted on my six year old yesterday because I have let my kids grow believing that eventually (if they cry hard enough) they will get their way.
What’s real is that my own desire to have more has led to my children believing that we deserve more.
What’s real is that I yell, I scream, I cry, I throw things, and I certainly don’t greet my husband at the door with a kiss every evening.
What’s real is that I can’t get through writing this without having to stop to care for a shrieking baby, a panty-wetting toddler, and a demanding middle child.
What’s real is that my baby spends more time in his swing than my arms, so far today has been nursed at the city park and a Subway, and is lucky if I can remember his daily doses of zantac before the my-belly-is-on-fire screaming starts.
What’s real is that when my husband calls to say he’s on his way, we kick it into high clean-up gear. What’s real is that I keep the living/dining/kitchen passable and the real mess behind closed doors.
What’s real is that I hide in the shower.
What’s real is that everyday I screw up my kids a little bit more and every night I ask forgiveness and pray that the grace that covers me despite my shortcomings will cover them.
What’s real is that they know I am real. There’s nothing more humbling than asking forgiveness of your seven-year old.
They told me I was the best mommy last week. It might have had something to do with the Cokes I let them have, but it still made me feel good, because I believe that deep down, they really mean it.
Even when they’re driving me crazy.