I like to sew and bake and get way too involved in TV shows. I enjoy reading a good book (or even a pointless-waste-of-time book) and doodling in my sketchbook and painting. I even love scouring thrift stores and playing with makeup and trying different ways of doing my hair.
I love pastries and Kraft American cheese and peanut butter and candy. I love cheeseburgers and fresh berries and bagels and sushi.
I do not cook dinner every night. Not even close.
I do not like folding laundry and matching socks. And I especially hate putting folded laundry away when I do finally get around to shaking out the wrinkles and folding it. I like to organize, but I never keep things organized. Our window sills are covered in layers of dog drool and snot. And dust. I loathe dusting. Our bathrooms need to be cleaner and I can’t remember the last time I mopped the kitchen floor. I am messy and I leave a trail of unfinished projects throughout the apartment with good intentions of finishing them… but hardly ever do.
I’m a terrible dancer, can hardly do much more than simple math in my head, and thought Morocco was a city in Spain.
And I love my life.
My baby doesn’t sleep through the night consistently, but I try to enjoy the extra sleepy snuggles I get during those middle of the night feeds. She won’t be needing me forever.
I feel like I’m failing all the time at this motherhood thing because I guess a lot and don’t really know what I’m doing. But, I’m learning that’s okay.
(Nobody really knows what they’re doing even though they pretend they do.)
I post way too many pictures of my daughter on Facebook and Instagram, but lets face it… she is adorable. And those cheeks! (I’m probably obsessed.)
The dog licks our baby’s face and I burned Mac-n-cheese and I probably spend too much time sitting on the couch doing nothing.
And I love it.
All of this is to say…
You may see me post a picture of the latest drawing from my sketchbook or project I made for Lucy. But know that there were probably 20 failed attempts before I got to something I felt worth sharing.
And that latest batch of pancakes or heart-shaped waffles I made? Half of them burned or were slightly undercooked and dense and made me feel like I ate a pile of rocks after I finished eating them. Too many of them, of course.
I stress out relatively easily, take things personally that I shouldn’t, and worry about things that will likely never happen. Ever.
Because I’m a work in progress. I’m not perfect. I don’t have my act together all the time, and I’m just doing my best to enjoy each day and take one baby step at a time.
Be kind to yourself. We’re all a work in progress.