A dear old friend of mine told me she just couldn't bring herself to read my blog. She left me with the impression that it intimidated her somehow, and I didn't understand.
I think I understand a little better now.
This morning, I visited a perfect blog written by a perfect and beautiful blogger with a perfect life. She posted gorgeous pictures of herself and her family. She wrote about her historic restored house, blissful homeschool experience, classic and impeccable taste in all things vintage. I swear I looked for just one post or picture with a hint of a tiny flaw, but there were none.
Was I somehow jealous? Maybe. Will I visit her blog again? No way, because I picked up a cruel measuring stick too long for myself while lurking there.
I realize now that my dear old friend must have found that same unkind ruler for herself on my blog. And though I wish I could, I cannot remove it from her hands.
So, today I wanted to mention that I bite my fingernails terribly. I take for granted those I love much too often. I must spray chicken poop from my sidewalk every single day. I have never cleaned the outside of my windows in the four years I've lived at my house. My seventeen year old van could never be clean or good looking again. There are weeds in my lovely garden. My children are not always well mannered and thoughtful. Homeschool is excruciating at times. I am hopeless with a budget. I not as domestic as I need to be. For example, up until today, one of my cabinets had a thick layer of goo where honey has perpectually dripped for years. And you should see what my daughter is wearing to the carpet store this afternoon- her blue Dorothy dress with white bear buttons, ruby red slippers with white socks (I talked her out of the purple and yellow ones), and a frazzled apron she cut herself from light green checked fabric. I spent at least five minutes convincing her to brush her hair, but it didn't really help tame her wild disarrayed mane. She's carrying a basket lined with a colorful Russian shawl with a stuffed dog on top.
My life is imperfect.
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