I make a lot of mistakes as a mom.  I make a lot of mistakes as a daughter, a sister, and a friend.  I admit it.  I can live with it.  Perfection is in the eye of the beholder anyway, isn’t it?

If I were perfect, I would be boring.  An auto reactive, decisively superior, gentile soul with all of the answers, none of the drama, and some of the adoration. So, I am… perfectly imperfect!

perfectly imperfect

I choose imperfection on principal alone.  That principal being that I don’t know any other way and why mess with what’s working?  Even if it isn’t.

I air my imperfections for all to see.  My daughter’s sometimes have dirty faces, mismatched clothes – that probably should be ironed – if I could turn it on – after I actually found it, and uncombed hair.  I have a permanent ponytail, mismatched clothes, and hairy legs – that I should shave – if I knew where my razor was.

My imperfections spill to my house, my van, and my closets.  They are often messy, unorganized, and leave little to be desired for those who see them.  A continual routine of cleaning what will soon be unclean, organizing what will soon the thrown throughout the room, and just not enough time in the day have led to the most horrible realization that Merry Maids may never hire me, no matter how merry I may be.

I am disjointed on an emotional and psychological level as well.  Have been my whole life.  Dr. Phil could do an entire season on my lack of self – confidence, inability to make a commitment to myself and stick with it – my waistline wrote that – and my constant anxiety over not being, well, perfect.

But I am OK with all of this.  It does not bother me anymore-  much – sometimes – OK, often.

I do try.  I try really hard.  I make charts, plans, consult experts – my friends – and feel determination well up in my chest as I get excited and get going.  That motivational bubble lasts as long as my children do without whining. So, not very long.  So many good plans  – poof – gone with the stench of my recently burned dinner.

Despite my imperfections, my scars, and my insanity – well documented – just take my word for it – I am a happy gal. The tendons binding my imperfections are smiling, happy, and fun loving.  They are polite, entertaining, and creative.  They think they are pretty – they are, think that they are lucky to have me – I am luckier, and they want to be with me – and not because it is required by law.

They are my constant reminder that no matter how hard I try, my imperfections will always be an asset.  Something to be admired, and the reason I get up and do it everyday, despite my almost guaranteed failure.

So, I embrace my imperfections.  Coddle them.  Admire them for their determination to stick around.  I rely on them for my day to day excuses, failing attempts at structure, and blog topics.  Most of all, I thank them.  Because I am really, really, good at being imperfect, flawed, and damaged.  Like really good!

Like…  perfectly imperfect.

**Originally Published 10/19/2010**