Okay, so I'm not on an eternal quest to be the perfect mommy. I think that went out the door long ago. I'm also not on any sort of quest whereby I pretend to be a perfect mommy the whole way through. Why? Well I'm fallible for one, and second, I don't like to pretend to be something I'm not. That takes too much work...and I -- my friends -- am a slacker.
I've got it clear with myself that I am not perfect, nor do I try to be. Or do I? I always end up feeling horrible about the most trivial things. Things that all lead to one sum: lack of perfection. For instance, I've been sick a lot lately and as a result have been lacking in the culinary department. I readily admit that I'm not the mom who always cooks the most nutritious of meals, but I do cook every night (generally). Well not lately. I can't count how many times we've went out to eat or had fend for yourself night the last few weeks. I most likely can count (on one hand, no less) the number of nights I've cooked: two. I would say three, but I'm more sure it's two. I've cooked two nights out of the last how many? Not only does that make me feel like a crappy mom, but a crappy wife to-boot. Mommy guilt and wife guilt. Does it get any better? Another example is painted picture perfect right before you -- or rather before the screen in front of which I'm sitting...wearing my pajamas...at 3pm. I'm still in pajamas. At 3pm. I amaze myself. My kitchen is a mess; a jumble of dirty dishes and mail we forgot about...little bits and pieces of electronics and uneaten baby carrots turned projectile that were long ago lost under the fridge. What else do I have to feel less-than-perfect about? Ah, yes: the laundry. What laundry does get done almost assuredly is washed and dried by my husband. What's worse is that it then sits, laundered, unfolded in some basket in my bedroom. When it does get folded -- out of annoyance by either myself or my husband -- it generally gets flip flopped from laying on the bed to back in the basket. I mean, how hard would it be to hang it up or put it away? Apparently very.
But mostly, I feel bad about not cooking. Last Wednesday before Wednesday night church I dropped by Sonic to pick up a kids' meal for Adrien so that he could actually eat. I never thought I'd be doing that. I never thought I'd be offering a corn dog and french fries to my son as a viable meal. We have dinner served at church on Wednesday nights, but I'm so busy with my assistant director duties that I can't do that and keep up with a toddler...so I guess a corn dog was a good solution? Then on Sunday night we had the new member dinner at church. We weren't sure what was going to be served so we stopped by McDonald's to pick up a happy meal for Adrien beforehand. He was happy -- I was guilt-laden. I mean, I used to never even eat McDonald's myself...and feed it to a child? Well that was just blasphemous! But it's something that happens frequently now. Not frequently as in every day -- just frequently as in a few times/month. I used to be the mom who was astonished when I heard of someone feeding a 9 month old Eggo frozen pancakes for breakfast...oh wait, I still am. I was at McDonald's once not too long ago and saw a mom feeding her child who was under a year old french fries...you have to know what I was thinking at that point. But then I realized that I was feeding my just over a year old french fries.
That's it -- I refuse to turn into hydrogemommy.
I wonder how it is that my journey toward raising a child not chemically altered by the likes of fast food or growth hormones took such a sharp careening turn straight for it? I'm not sure, but one can only assume I was driven there by sleep deprivation and a good dose of reality.
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