Who Am I Kidding?

Well, I've finally done it. I've started a blog. Do I have any clue what I am doing? Heck no. It always seemed pretty presumptuous to me. Like why would anyone give a rip about the mundane things I, or anyone else does, from day to day? But then it hit me. I have to do it for me, even if no one ever reads it. I have to do it because writing is who I am. And if someone happens to read it and suddenly feels like they aren't the only one who has no idea what they are doing in motherhood, or in life for that matter, then that makes it even better. It's around Christmas time that everyone reflects on the year, what they have done, and who they are. It's a time to pull up our boot straps, and try (once again) to be better. One thing I always vow to do is stop raising my voice around my children. But I usually have already screwed that one up around 9:30 a.m. And if you are a mom of two young boys and have managed to conquer this, then PLEASE let me in on the secret. Most days I feel like I need blood pressure medication. I think we all try to revamp our lives around Christmas time. Who doesn't want to be a little Martha Stewart-ish? Today I played board games with the kids, made cookies with the kids, and made a craft with the kids. But here is the REAL story. The cookie making was a disaster. Four generations gathered around my kitchen counter turned into National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. The dough was too sticky. Our huge dog jumped on the counter and bit the misshapen doughy head off of the snowman cookie, and while in the oven ALL of the cookies merged together like some mutation from Chernobyl. Martha Stewart I am not. Then, I will confess this, I hate (yes, I said hate) doing crafts with the kids. I am a perfectionist, and nothing bothers me more than trying to stand there and act like everything is okay when all I really want to do is rip the spoon from their little hands and do it all myself. One time I had to leave the room and pace around the house while my son did an "All About Me" project when he was in Kindergarten. I was one step away from having to breathe into a brown paper sack. So tonight we did a craft from Pinterest that involved paint and footprints. The only way I am still functioning is because all they had to do was let me paint their feet and then step onto a canvas. But it is 12:08, and I am still up working on it. That should pretty much tell you everything you need to know. My house is a mess, laundry is piling up, and none of that bothers me. But this craft of baby Jesus in the manger will be perfect before I hit the hay. Oh, and a snack too. AND I suppose the elf should do something really fantastic tonight. Does anyone else want to duct tape the maker of Christmas elves to a chair in a closet with only one lightbulb? Sorry, I am digressing. As perfect as I, or maybe even you, want things to be, it's not those moments that you will remember. You won't remember the time you made perfectly round sugar cookies with the kids, but you will remember the dog biting off the head of the snowman and everyone laughing as they realized that all of the cookies turned into one giant, disturbing cookie disaster. I'll remember my son building a Lego Whitehouse with my grandfather, and I will remember watching our dog playing with some arugula salad on the den carpet as one of our forms of entertainment for the evening. The perfect things I won't remember. It's our uniqueness that we remember. And unique is what we should all strive to be. Not perfection. Perfection is not possible anyway. So why are killing ourselves trying?