And here we are, 2014... no? Not yet? Well, give it time. It'll be here before you know it. Or at least Autumn will be. Zorak and I sat out on the balcony tonight, cooking supper, looked at one another and said, "It's too hot for this." Soon, though. Soon, it will be gorgeous enough to spend all day out there! I'm ready. So very ready.
In the meantime, this entry hit me upside the head. (I know, Mrs. Voskamp's aim isn't necessarily to advocate assault or battery, but sometimes that's just how it all comes together. As a friend said today, "a God smackdown". Ayup.) Perfectionism is an illness, and it's one that robs us of our ability to give praise, to be joyful, to enjoy all the delicious blessings we have in our days. It's the kind of thing that betrays our best efforts, sincerely given, and leaves us feeling bitter, resentful, and filled with failure instead of love. I've had a downright paralyzing case of it lately -- evidenced clearly in my refusal to blog until I could get a picture "and do it properly", and my consequent stress and frustration at not being able to find my camera. Really? Because crappy pictures of stressed out kids is what it's all about, I'm sure. (Can you feel the self-deprecating eye rolls from there?)
And the thing is, it hasn't been perfect lately. The kitchen floor looks like I'm sneaking livestock in during the hours Zorak is at work. The laundry... oh, yes, the laundry. Yep. The projects that aren't getting done, the repairs that keep cropping up... that stoopid "check engine light" that comes on right after I've paid all the bills. (What IS that, anyway?) And the dishes? I've been on the verge of carving everyone *one* bowl and *one* cup (maybe, if they're good) that will hold their own personal utensils and just take the rest out to the shooting range. Dinner plates would make fun skeet, I'm sure.
But it's been good. So good. We can pay the bills. We can have the lessons. We can laugh and talk and work together. We are so blessed with the children and their funny, wonderful ways. James will be 13 this month, and you know - we still enjoy him so. For that, alone, I should be wallowing in joy and thankfulness every waking moment. This is better than whatever image of "perfect" creeps in with that illness.
I still really do need to mop that floor. But first, I'm going to kiss my babies and read to them. And, I'm glad I wrote. Even if (though) it isn't perfect.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
2 comments:
I'm glad you wrote, too! And I can't believe that you're about to have a 13yo. Wow, that was quick!
Doesn't need to be :) Your blog posts are always a joy to read!
Post a Comment