It’s true, you know. Outside of the fact that there isn’t one perfect body on this planet, mothers (you and me, chica) are probably the closest to imperfect there are. It comes with the territory.
Here’s what gets me though: The ones who try to be perfect. The ones who view kids in uncoordinated outfits is a character flaw. You know the ones-they feed the kids only organic juice boxes (seriously, organic juice?) and equip their kiddies with the latest educational toys that the average adult couldn’t operate. The moms who are always perfectly put together, whose leather-seated SUVs are impeccably neat, with nary a cheese curl anywhere or sodden Pull-Up to be found. These are usually the women whose nails’ outshine mine, whose kids’ outsmart mine, and whose babies’ out-teeth and out-crawl mine. They’re the ones who smile encouragingly at me in the supermarket when I try to pry my preschooler away from the lobster tank while he sobs that he wants to HOLD ONE, while at the same time I’m shoving bottle in my babies’ screaming mouth. They murmur soft words of support when my sunglasses fall off my uncombed hair and into said lobster tank and wink at me with tanned skin and an effortlessly chic ponytail. They look amazing in yoga pants and never seem to retain water, and if I didn’t know kids, I’d be willing to bet theirs didn’t have smelly poos.
They are the antithesis of me. The imperfect, flawed, often unfinished, work-in-progress mothers. They are an impossibly high standard to meet, and I’m much more comfortable saying “Shah, right!” rather than try meeting it. They seem to be perfect on every level, and can do anything.
But here’s what I can do: I can juggle a phone call from an angry credit card company looking for their late payment while making lunch for two cranky kids. I can play pirates with my four-year old and blow bubbles at my nine-month old simultaneously. My hair may always be poorly styled and in desperate need of a good foil, but my boys think I’m the prettiest lady in the world. My house may always be slightly (at best) disorganized and messy, but it’s because I play games and interact with my kids. I’m their first playmate, their first friend (along with daddy), and their first true love. To me, that’s more important than anything else in the world.
(I can also write this entry while my nine month old bangs the dishwasher with a wooden spoon and fills his diaper for the ninetieth time today.)
Here’s what else I can do: I can admit I’m not perfect. I can admit, without reservation or regret, that I am as faulty as last year’s imports from China. This site is dedicated to all imperfect moms everywhere, to all of us works-in-progress, bath-robed, messy-haired, PB&J for three weeks in a row mommies. Because we need each other-and we need each other to admit we aren’t perfect. We’re moms.