Collapsed Perfection

I left the house for work last week in a hurry – looked around as I went out the door and thought, “I should clean this place before I go, but NOBODY is going to possibly be here while I’m gone and I am sooo late and today’s important....”

I left the dishes in the sink from the previous night’s homemade jam endeavor. I left the pillows on the floor, where they landed the night before after we collapsed on the couch after said jam making. The crockpot was on for dinner, hardly noticeable with all the other dishes left to drain along the counter.  

I just left. Of course, my mother-in-law stopped by for something located on the cluttered counter that afternoon while we were out. As kind as she is, as great as she is … oh, man, of all the people to see it in that state. I could do nothing but laugh, so I laughed. What fabulous irony. 

My own mom instilled in me this dire sense of cleanliness and homemaking. She drilled this concept into my sisters and me – from the 7 a.m. Saturday wake-up calls with the vacuum to the Thanksgiving pies. She is very talented at balancing a job, a family and a home. My sisters also got that vibe down to a science. I’m not there yet and may never be.

I’m realizing more and more in this wife world I’m in, I can’t do everything I wish I could do. I make crappy breadsticks. I don’t sew. I haven’t washed the blinds since … a while.  I don’t invite the neighbors to dinner. Heck, some nights I don’t even make dinner, Tyler does (thanks, babe).  

I do not measure up to my own expectations. Fortunately, the more I think about it, the more I’d say they’re screwed up. I’m demanding perfection, but my perfection is not attainable. My expectations and failings haunt me on many occasions, mostly when I lose myself by inflicting comparison. I bring myself back to peace with the thought that my husband is happy and I am happy. And I go for a run. Perfection is not what life’s about anyway.