There are times I look at this blog and I hate the voice I've become. I feel like the entirety of it is all rah-rah go mom things, all pictures of my children and stuff about school, and less of me. Major Bedhead talked about that today, about looking in the mirror and not recognizing the woman there, and sometimes? Sometimes I don't recognize my own life here, in these pages.
And now, to take my own advice, here I'll give you a story, and stop blatting angst:
We've been in the pool a lot lately, where a lot equals at least once per day, and I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when the kids started running out with fabric strips to dry themselves I thought had been consigned to the rag-bag long ago. I was idly looking over the picnic table where all the towels park until they're needed and realized that they all had at least one hole, and most were thin and flimsy. And was that one from my mother's house? (I haven't lived with my parents for....um...twenty-odd years? These are OLD towels. Practically antiques.)
At that point, I realized something that has probably been evident to most of you:
I'm just not terribly domestic.
Towels and dishcloths - completely beyond my radar. So yesterday I sucked it up and went to a big box store and reveled in their low low prices and ohmigod TOWELS that aren't paper thin and stringing themselves into oblivion along one edge. There! I thought. There! We look less like a paper-bag family now.
I paused, all triumphant and busy making a home! and maybe this domestic stuff isn't so bad!
and watched the children promptly use them, then toss them at the laundry basket and forget them.
Maybe they don't care about perfection? Maybe I shouldn't care about it, either.
At least not while there's a pool waiting.