I Don't Know How You Do It!

The above phrase has been delivered to me countless times. The majority of the time, the utterer has been referring to the fact that I am the mother of three and stepmother of two, with a husband who works too much, eight pets, and a part time job that involves massive sleep deprivation on my part.

I know, right?

Also, I believe that most of the time the utterer is attempting to convey to the utteree (that would be me) that this set of circumstances is unusually difficult, and that they are impressed with, I don't know, my performance, I guess? Or the fact that I'm not bat-shit crazy living under the Aurora bridge by now or something. This is Nice. This a Compliment. If They were in my place They would clearly not handle said circumstances as well. Clearly.

However, deep down in my grouchy, sleep-deprived, suspicious, nougat-y center I am suspicious. I sort of get the feeling that They are gloating. That They are just looking for a sneaky way to remind me that They don't work outside the home, that They only have one Precious Gift From Above, that They still get 8 hours of sleep daily and don't have to wear a nametag or non-slip shoes. Ever.

This paranoia of mine is almost justified by the fact that I live in the Passive Aggressive Capital of the Universe. But, since Almost only counts in hand grenades and Kardashian marriages, I should really get a grip. If anyone wants to waste their time trying to make me feel bad, they need a hobby, because I'm already way good at that.

The answer to the five dollar question is easy. I do It (what, not murder my offspring? manage to get a shower every day? can you be more specific?) Because I Have To. Because no one else is gonna do it. Because the alternatives resemble foreclosure/poverty/malnutrition/CPS investigations/therapy bills/Maury Povich.

"You do what you gotta do" is not just advice. It is fact.

On the other hand, sometimes I don't Do It. Sometimes I am so tired that I literally cry. Sometimes I yell at my kids and say silly immature things. Sometimes I wear my pajamas all day and can't pay my bills and feed my kids popcorn for breakfast and threaten to sell the dog, Playstation, car, etc. Just because I'm not twitching in public doesn't mean I have it all. I ain't June Cleaver. No f***ing way.

Since I always feel like I have to have A Point, The Point is it doesn't really matter How I do it. Thinking about How I do It just leaves me grumpy and craving sugar. Instead, let's focus on Why I Do It. The answer to this question is also easy and probably pretty obvious to most of you. I Do It because I'm mom. Because there were times when no one Did It for me. I Do It because I love hearing Declan say double-u and because Natalie hasn't had a bottle for four years but she still smells like warm milk every morning. Because the sound of kids screaming at each other is much prettier to me these days than the sound of downtown traffic, and because I have been brainwashed to equate Mess with Love.

So there. Take that.

I Do.

Perfect!

Wow, two years, eh? How ridiculous.

I've been thinking about Perfection lately, ever since a dear friend of mine introduced me to a certain blog by a certain single dad. Specifically, the disease of Perfection (yes, capital P) that appears to be mowing folks down by the millions in this country. I, too, suffer from the Perfection disease, just as my friend admits. Specifically (well, for one) the Writing Perfection disease. It's just plain idiotic of me really. I never blog because I'm waiting for the Perfect witty/charming/whimsical bullshit to just appear in my head. I bought a gorgeous journal with a japanese painting of the ocean on the front, but have I written in it? Dream on. It's still right where I tossed it when I got home from the store.

So, here we go. Perfection be damned. I'm committing to writing whatever now. Just....whatever. So I might bore y'all to death. Or maybe I'll accidentally be witty/charming/whimsical. Who knows. But it's going to be great.

I think.