I’m crazy excited for my family’s first ever trip to Disney World this week. To kick off the week Disney style, I’m throwing some fairytale fun into this post.
You can imagine the number of fairytales I read these days to my nearly 4 year-old daughter. Cinderella. Snow White. Sleeping Beauty. I love the magical world of princesses and happily ever after as much as my little girl does.
But have you noticed these stories always end before the princesses become moms? It seems logical to me. We all know there’s no such thing as the perfect mom. Even the great writers of these legendary fables knew they couldn’t sell that.
Perfect moms are like men who give back rubs without expecting sex in return. They just don’t exist.
Motherhood is what it is. Challenging. Rewarding. Imperfect.
I’ve finally learned to accept and embrace my mom imperfectionism. In fact, I celebrate it often with a deliciously intoxicating glass of red wine. And cake.
Moms make mistakes. So? We’re human. Is there a better lesson for our kids than seeing their mom admit she’s made a mistake and apologize for it?
I hope you don’t get the wrong idea. This isn’t about pessimism. Or self-deprecation. And I have no appreciation for half-ass efforts. I simply believe human beings are beautifully flawed.
Imperfectionism can be difficult to embrace sometimes. I know, because I’m still inherently offended when my 17 year-old scary-teenage-know-it-all son tells me I’m not so good at being his mom when he’s not getting what he wants. It’s easier when I remember to appreciate the challenging aspects of motherhood, too.
The Imperfect Mom is the new Stepford Wife.
Remember the pop culture era of the
robots Stepford Wives? The idea that life, marriage and motherhood were as easy to navigate as breathing. A belief that women could indeed be absolutely perfect. Ugh. I’m personally quite grateful for the imperfect mom movement of today.
I’m definitely no Cinderella or Snow White. I think they would have been Stepford Wives. They could clean an entire castle without breaking a sweat. Me? I get caught by the UPS guy while vacuuming the foyer without my top, sweat-absorbing paper towel sheets sticking out from beneath my bra.
Yes, I’m often relegated by life and motherhood back to that place of humility, speechlessness and imperfectionism. And that’s exactly where I belong.