Sometimes I quit...

Sometimes I have to quit reading blogs for a while. I tend to be a wee bit hard on myself. Sometimes reading blogs makes me feel like everyone is a better mother, wife, housekeeper and cook than I am. I'm particularly vulnerable in the mothering department. I think that I have wonderful sweet and thoughtful children. I wouldn't call them "exceptional." They have their own faults and flaws. But in my eyes they are just about as perfect as can be.

When I'm blog-hopping with a little free time, I can get kind of down about myself. There are Mom's who are more fun than me, who are stricter than me, who would never give their child a hot dog, stick them in front of the TV to cook dinner, and who would put them in gifted programs when they are 2. There are Mom's that are more protective than me (though not many, really) and Mom's that believe in free-range kids (HEART ATTACK, I WOULD HAVE). Mom's that buy organic everything and sprout grains while wearing babies and breast-feeding 5-year-olds. Homeschool Mom's that have perfect houses, perfect school work boxes, perfectly outlined maps of all the states, the countries and the solar system. Families that have Dad's that are home more but make more money.

There are women who blog about fashion. I'm not them. I am wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I have on socks today only because my feet are in bad shape from a summer without shoes and I'm trying to give them a moisturizing treatment so they don't turn into Hobbit feet.

There are women who blog about decorating. They have lovely homes and make designer decorations out of a spork and some hot glue. There are woman in McMansions with granite and stainless and spotless white carpets. We have a decent house. It could use a little TLC but it's home. We're working on it slowly.

There are women who write from their homestead where they grow their own food and butcher their own meat and raise their kids to run the hills and valleys and be free. They milk goats and grow heirloom veggies. They spin Alpaca wool and knit their family sweaters from it. Sweaters that they dry on their clothes lines made from Hemp that they spun into rope themselves.

And I admire every single one of these women. They are amazing. They have amazing lives. And sometimes it's too much.

I'm just me. There's nothing extraordinary here. I'm just a Mom. A suburban housewife. Sure we homeschool. We do our best. We're average. Nicholas doesn't speak three languages or solve mathematical equations for fun. I have to force him to read anything. He's a fourth grader doing fourth grade work. Plus some things we missed last year while moving. Sarah is a typical 16 month old. She isn't potty training herself or reading words on the tub wall. She's just playing. And laughing.

I'm just a Mom. Wearing something comfortable. My hair is fixed and my makeup is on. Minimal today but on. I have dirty dishes in the sink right now. My kids ate frozen waffles for breakfast. I occasionally give them Kool-aid. And hot dogs. And boxed mac and cheese.

I know. I do know that everyone puts the best of themselves up on the Internet sometimes. Most times. We don't want people to see the messy home, the day we wore sweats, the day the kids wouldn't listen, the times when the husband worked more than he was home, the cobwebs we can't reach, the kitchen island overcome with magazines and papers, the stuff that life is made of. And most of the time I'm fine with that. Sometimes I just have to remind myself though.

My kids are happy. They are well adjusted. They seem confident in who they are. We're putting food on the table. We laugh a lot. We're a good family. We're not perfect. My Domestic Diva hat has been slipping a little since Sarah came along. She's a challenge. A handful. And a joy. My children are my accomplishment in life. I never set out to make them exceptional. I just want them to be happy. So, there are times I stop reading other blogs and living in others' lives. Times I take to remind myself that my life is good as it is and it is OK if it isn't near perfect.

And I hope that having less-than-perfect parents and a little bit of Kool-aid won't have scarred them for life.