Self Abuse

In reading other people’s blogs — and in talking to girlfriends, I have found that I am not very hard on myself about my parenting, my habits, or my accomplishments.

I’m not the best mommy in the world, but I do the best I can: my children are fed, clothed, clean, happy, and they know they’re loved.

I’m not the best housekeeper in the world (not by a LONGshot), but if the priest came to visit today I’d have at least one room that he’d be allowed to sit in where I wouldn’t be completely mortified. Probably two rooms. Maybe even three, and it’s *possible* that the middle level bathroom might even be clean enough for company.

I never have been a career-oriented woman or an activist, and I’m totally fine with that.

Sometimes I wonder why women must put so much pressure on themselves to be superhuman. Maybe it’s because I keep my expectations lower than so many of the women I know? I don’t know. I don’t think my expectations are too low, by any means… There’s plenty of room for improvement, don’t get me wrong, and I’m a chronic dreamer and listmaker when it comes to making those improvements. But I don’t torture myself if I achieve less than perfection. I learn from it and move on.

It saddens me that so many women expect themselves to always have the perfect answer, the perfect solution, the perfect life, and then are disappointed when things don’t quite work out the way they had it all charted in their Franklin Planner.

My mantra for a long time has been that when people are standing around at my funeral, I don’t want them to talk about how clean my house was or what a great job I did at work. I want them to talk about my great children, my loving husband, the love and laughter in my home, and wonder how I did it all. What “it” is depends on the observer. I do a lot. And I do a lot of it well. But I don’t expect myself ever to be perfect, because I’d forever be letting myself down.