I wandered away from my blog one day and couldn’t seem to find my way back. There have been a million ideas buzzing around in my head for blog posts but I have not had the ambition to come on here and put the ideas into words. Occasionally I started a blog and then deleted it. At times because it seemed too contrived and not at all heartfelt and at other times because I felt like I was baring too much of my soul and I just needed to keep that for myself. I considered starting another blog and not telling anyone I know about it because then I would be able to lay myself bare and still have the protection of anonymity. It is a hell of a burden to feel like you can never really express yourself because there are other people and their feelings to consider. Sometimes it would be nice to just be about me. As I type that sentence I am immediately feeling guilty and selfish. Honestly, I am waiting for the day they ask me to give permission for my image to be used in the definition of neurotic.
Lately my whole world has turned on its ear. So many changes and while almost all good, change is still difficult. I have done a complete re-evaluation of things and decided life is too damn short to be stressed as much as I have been. Worrying about every little aspect, including things I can and cannot change, is an incredible waste of time and energy. Fighting life’s truths only wears you down.
I really feel this in my most coveted role, as a mother. I think the hardest thing about being a parent is being 100% honest. Being honest with yourself and others about your children. Before I had kids I envisioned beautiful, angelic, perfect little creatures and for many years they lived up to that very image. Then came the teenage years. The years where they are struggling to find their own identity and deal with the transition from childhood to adulthood the best they can. As a parent I have done my best to instill good values, guide them towards the right paths and to tell them how very loved they are. I am now coming to grips with the agonizing truth that my children are not perfect. They are people. They are human and by that very definition imperfect. I fought against this concept for a long time, not out of vanity but out of a true belief that my boys were as damn near to perfect as anyone can be. They are smart, handsome, personable, loving …….and flawed. The last part I have to admit, for all our peace of mind. I have to be able to embrace their mistakes, help them through when they need it and most importantly accept and love them for exactly who they are. Perfectly imperfect.
Easier to accept is the truth that I am also not perfect. This I have always been painfully aware of, it is only now at the ripe old age of 39 that I am realizing that its ok. I’m coming to grips with the understanding that if I make a mistake the world will not shatter. I can forgive myself and move on without forever mentally beating myself up or even wincing at the memory. They say practice makes perfect but I think practice makes it possible to accept imperfect.
So through all of this self assessment I may not be the most diligent blogger but I think in the end I will be a better one.