There is no thought more terrifying than coming here and writing what I really think and feel and know and then having someone I know in real life come along and read it.
I dont feel safe the same way I used to. People I know, know I blog.
My family knows this is here now. Mums at school.
I’m incredibly self conscious about it.
Which is ridiculous because this is my space. This is the place I have always come to write the real as it plays out in my head and be unashamed of the imperfection.
To be a champion of the real.
To revel in the non-airbrushed, unstyled, opposite to magazine finish life I truly lead.
I know lots of us say that – that our homes aren’t perfect or magazine ready or “I’m so sorry for the mess” – but really, I’m so sorry for the mess.
My house is so messy that I actually do a happy dance when I finally do the dishes and find the bottom of the kitchen sink.
I try to stay on top of the laundry and folding but did you know that the piles of clothes don’t just take themselves to their rightful place? Seriously I’m expected to do that shit myself?
I repainted our tall boy months ago, bought new drawer knobs and everything – but the screws were too short for the drawers and now I have to get new screws and the idea of going to Bunnings hurts my feelings so bad the stupid tall boy is still sitting on the back verandah “while the paint cures”.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to be brave.
I forgot that I have nothing to be ashamed of.
I forgot I’m a mother who gIves a shit and that gives me leave to shake off some of the mother guilt.
I forgot that mother guilt comes in all shapes and sizes – like mothers do, I guess.
Lately, whenever someone has called me a good (or even great) mother, rather than fist pumping and thinking: “I GOT this!” I’ve been cowering in my own mind from the nasty thoughts that shout:
“YOU FRAUD! You’ve got them FOOLED!”
It’s hard to think my way away from that. It’s hard to accept the compliment because surely everyone must *know*.
Don’t they know I find peach stones at the bottom of clothes cupboards?
Don’t they know my floor is a grape-trip-hazard so terrible that supermarket OHS departments have nightmares about it?
Don’t they know I am both devastated and awed every time I sit on the toilet because HOW DO THEY GET THE WEE SO HIGH UP THE WALLS!?
Don’t you all know I’m failing? Can’t you all see?
And every now and then the logical woman inside of me – she’s been chained in the dungeon and has been most of my life (because why be logical when you can be magical) – makes herself known:
“Of course you aren’t failing you idiot! They’re alive! They’re fed! They’re amazing, confident, funny, quirky, adored individuals! No one gives a shit about the grape-and-Lego-burglar detection system!”
And I *know* she’s right.
I know I am doing a pretty all right job as mother to these children.
I know it with all of my soul.
But turning that knowing into feeling?
When your life has been spent feeling like you’re doing the most fabulous job of fooling people into thinking you are good at anything?
That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.