The Confessions of An Imperfect Woman

I read lots of blogs. Blogs on motherhood. On issues of faith. On scrapbooking. On raising two dogs. On being a spiritual pilgrim. On travel. On writing. On journaling. I read the Bible and other books and magazines and internet articles and watch the news and Jon Stewart and Oprah and The Office and ER. I listen to sermons and PodCasts and tirades and comedic radio programs. I take notes. I meditate. I ponder. I journal. I pray.

And then I try to do it all. To follow every piece of advice I read and hear. To follow every good eating and exercise regimen, to incorporate every spiritual discipline, to preserve all our memories on acid-free paper attached with acid-free glue sticks and subtitled with acid-free pens, and be the ideal wife and mother every moment of every day. Perfectly. Without mistakes. Without exceptions. Without falling off the wagon. Ever.

To that end,
I exercise five days per week.
I am regimental about what I eat and don't eat.
I read the Bible and pray daily.
I go to church at least three times per week.
I write thoughtful and inspiring blogs.
I love, honor, and cherish not only my husband and my children,
but also my mother and mother-in-law.
I read with and to my children daily.
I teach them Spanish and history and language arts
and the old hymns of the church, and
how to read carefully while always questioning
the texts they are devouring.

Except when I don't.
Except when I don't feel like it.
Except when I'm feeling human and lonely and sad.
Except when I want to eat milk chocolate pecan turtles and key lime pie and drink sweet coffee and diet Cherry Coke and mojitos.
Except when I take the day off from homeschooling and tell the kids they can watch television or play outside or eat whatever they want all day because Mom needs a break from everything and everybody.
Except when I want to run away from home and roam the streets of Rome.

I pretend to be perfect, except when I want to be really bad.
I attempt to remain devout, except when I want to abandon all my convictions.
I want to be gracious and kind and gentle, except when I want to be the steam engine that rolls through towns, careening around curves, and shaking fine china off of shelves in every stodgy and proper home.

Like a good girl, I have learned very well how to feel guilty for every failure, every foible, and every false front I put up. I have learned very well how to justify my selfishness, my fears, as well as my refusal to give up my selfishness and fears. And most of all, I have learned how to pretend to feel really bad for being bad even as I secretly enjoy my mischievousness with every cell of my being.

I love my life, my husband, my children, and my friends.
I live amazingly well, blessed in every area of my life.
I have never missed a meal or even come close to it.
I have traveled extensively and plan to do much more.
I read and write and receive letters, calls, and text messages from people I know and love, and I rejoice over each missive that I receive.
I am enormously thankful for all the blessings that God has poured into my life.

Except for when...

I think I'll go Google a few blogs and articles about women like me, people like me, for whom imperfection is more the rule than the exception. I expect that within 5 seconds, over 1,000,000 hits will come up.