I always kind of dreamed of being a certain kind of adult/mother. I was going to be the mom who braided her daughter’s hair each morning, and put the big pretty bows in her hair. I was going to be put together. I was going to have a house from a magazine. There were so many things I was going to do!


First things first: decorating is a real skill and talent that not everyone possesses. I never understood decorating as a career, or why people wouldn’t just do it themselves. And then adulthood happened. Like, real adulthood. I want my home to look like it’s straight out of a magazine. I do. But let’s say we look past the cobwebs, dog hair, piles of clutter on every possible surface, laundry baskets, folded laundry piles on the table, and the tornado of toys and books strewn throughout the living room each day…it still wouldn’t look like a magazine. I have the decorating skills of a toddler, you guys. I see things and think how great they look, and how much I’d like to make my house look like that, but I’m not actually able to envision it, let alone execute it.

I want to look put together…

I wanted to be a mom that looked really put together. Nice clothes, hair done and looking good, etc. Let’s say I manage to wear real clothes and not just yoga pants and a sweat shirt (we’re digging deep here), I still just don’t look put together. My hair, no matter how much effort and time I put into it, never looks good and crisp. I don’t know if it’s because of how thin it is (I mean, I do know that’s not the lone issue, because even when I had thick hair it never looked just right), but I’m sure that exacerbates the issue, if it’s my cowlick, if it’s the texture of my hair, or what, but it always looks at least just a little askew. Always at least a little less than what it desires to be. And even when I’m wearing a suit and heels and have my hair done, I still just don’t look as put together as some women do with a messy bun, sweat shirt, and yoga pants. It’s just not who I am.

Oh, Pinterest

And now onto Pinterest… Even a few years ago I aspired to be Pinteresty. I love Pinterest. And I love all of the DIY projects and crafts on there. You see them, they look doable, and then the realization that your skillset is that of a 3 year old kicks in, and you end your adventure with a glass of wine and a bowl of ice cream. Or is that just me? I want to be able to do those things. I want to paint old wood and make it a snow man. Or create my own wall art. Or make cool treats for school parties. Or decorate my house like a photo on Pinterest, and make my kitchen sparkle. But, like, that just isn’t the reality of who I am and what I can do. And that’s not a dig at all at the people who can do those things and are really good at it. I am amazed by them. But I am not one of those people.

Back to that hair

I always thought I’d do my daughter’s hair and it would be so cute, and we’d start out each morning that way. Our mornings actually consist of me begging her to brush her hair, which she won’t let me touch, and a lot of rushing and sometimes yelling, and sometimes just hoping and praying that she actually got everything she needs into her backpack, as we wait for the bus. Her gorgeous, thick, straight hair is completely off limits for me. She won’t even let me brush it, let alone put it in a braid or pony tail or put bows in it.

My accidental capsule wardrobe

I have like 7 items of clothing that I wear on a regular basis, and three are sweat shirts, 2 are yoga pants, and the rest are pretty much just acceptable for, like, going somewhere other than the pickup line or my parents’ house. Because my weight has fluctuated so much over the years, I’m afraid to ever get rid of anything, and I’m currently back into clothes I didn’t think I’d fit into again, but most of them are at least 6 years old.

The expectation versus the reality of it all

I’m not a pinterest mom. I can’t and don’t do my daughter’s hair. I will never look put together no matter how much I try. My house will never, ever look like a magazine photo. And I wear clothes that are 6 years old on a regular basis. And I’m really okay with every piece of that. It’s just who I am and doing anything but accepting that is doing myself a disservice. I don’t feel bad for my ineptness in the aforementioned categories, because for every weakness, I have a strength in something else (probably…). I value myself no less for my imperfections, and while I’ll always strive to be the best I can be, I’m no longer striving to be someone I’m not.

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