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.

It started with spilled milk.  While there may be no use crying over it, sometimes there is use in getting mad.

So Joshua rushed from the bedroom shirt half-buttoned with “it’s only seven in the morning” written all over his face to find out why his high-strung too-pregnant wife was ranting about milk.

It’s because we’ve lost all the valves that go in Amelia’s Playtex cups.  I don’t know what happened to them.  Maybe the dishwasher ate them.  But when I give her milk in a cup with no valve, you know what happens.

It’s hard to squat and bend and clean up spilled milk for the first of many times when your belly extends far out past your feet and every move is a stabbing pain.

Then after that, it was everything.  A Jonah Day, Anne Shirley would say.

When you’re contracting and cramping and carting around two toddlers to Story Hour and refereeing fights and folding laundry and washing dishes and paying bills, at some point, it all becomes too much.

Too many little toys all over the floor to be picked up again.

Too many times of trying to get one to sleep only to have the other one get back up.

Too many times of trying to just sit down only to be climbed upon and kicked in places that don’t need kicking.

Too many short moments.

Too many wonderings if this day will ever end.

My mom says I hold up unrealistic expectations for myself.  It’s true.  I think it’s because I feel surrounded by perfection.  Maybe I need to travel to a third-world country and really realize just how good I have it.  Because in the grand scheme of things, nothing happened.  It’s just nothing seemed right.  Everything seemed too hard.

Amelia left a trail of Cheez-its behind her at the OB office because I didn’t have anyone to keep her and sometimes I think I’ve irritated my mother-in-law by constantly asking.  So I didn’t.

Amelia took her shoes off and walked barefoot through the parking lot and I was too tired to care.

But it was at McDonald’s that I lost it.  So embarrassing.  Madelynne spilled her ketchup and when I tried to help her, I knocked over her drink and I was holding a tray and Amelia was escaping and sweet tea was everywhere.

Sometimes it’s just too much and sometimes the tears are just enough to make it better.

Some friends from church were there.  They settled my girls at a table, where Amelia spilled her milk again, and helped me carry out food and wiped up my mess and told me it would be okay.

They’ve been there, so I believe them.  They were exactly what I needed in that moment.  Just someone to show me some love, rather than some judgement.

Jeannett over at Life Rearranged published a great post today about showing mamas some love.  We’ve all been there, so let’s stop pretending we haven’t and get real with one another, in the grocery store, in the parking lot, in the library or the McDonald’s.  It doesn’t matter how many little fingers are squeezed into yours, if you’re a mama, your hands are full and it feels good for someone (even a stranger) to give you some encouragement.

Because yes, these days are short and they go by so fast and soon they’ll all be gone and you’ll be sorry.  But for those days when all this mess seems never-ending and you can’t imagine missing spilled milk, nothing shows God’s love like a smile and a helping hand.