I am failing. Miserably.
Most of what my kids eat comes from the freezer or from a can. I am an adequate (and that may be pushing it) cook but I do not enjoy it and have no patience for following a recipe to a T. Sometimes I even manage to ruin the generic brand of Hamburger Helper, a meal that is supposed to be fool proof. There are three steps. That’s about two too many.
I threw out my concerns about “organic” at around the same time I embraced the fact that I would be wearing my maternity yoga pants until they fell apart. I’m sitting in those bad boys now. No regrets.
My decorating. Oh, sweet baby manatees, my decorating. My entire house is half way done. We moved into our home when I was eight months pregnant and the progress has moved at a snail’s pace ever since.
When I did manage to pawn off my children long enough to paint the majority of the down stairs it was done quickly and since my husband was helping it was done without much attention to detail. The trim has approximately three billion paint splatters on it. As does our carpet and hardwood (but I cut the majority of the carpet stains out). Our blue accent wall has a big old smear of gray on it. I don’t remember how it happened but it makes me a little nauseas every time I see it. There are putty marks all over. One wall has three big circles of putty about eight inches in diameter. I was supposed to touch those up. That was a year and a half ago.
I have six or seven pieces of décor I want to hang up. They have been in our spare closet since January of 2016 with no end to their internment in sight.
Every time I look behind my couch a small part of me dies.
There is currently a gaudy striped sheet acting as a curtain in our bathroom. My husband nailed it into place when we moved in, that was three years ago, it would take me maybe an hour to sew up a new curtain. Even less to just install a cheap set of blinds from Wal-Mart. But that sounds like way too much effort so that sheet isn’t going anywhere.
I’m terrified of moving any of my appliances for fear of disturbing any beasts that may be lurking behind or beneath.
I attempted to make my 20-month-old daughter a couple of cute cotton summer dresses but I got so frustrated with how long this “simple” pattern was taking that I skipped any steps I thought were unnecessary. Turns out they were completely necessary. I wound up with an unrecognizable mess that I unceremoniously stuffed in the closet and then cried in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. I told my husband I was taking a break on it, I didn’t mention it was an eternal break.
I bought Harry Potter stamps hoping that they would inspire me to write heart felt notes and letters to friends and family. That didn’t work. All my friends and family can confirm that they’ve never received a letter from me. Also, I lost the stamps. They’re probably under my fridge.
My children wear their pajamas all day. Let me rephrase that. My children wear one half of their pajamas all day, sometimes they wear only their diapers. Let me rephrase that again. My children are typically only wearing diapers.
But, here’s the thing. I have a God who looks at me and my mess of a home and laughs with me at the overwhelming beauty of it all.
The one I am ultimately accountable to doesn’t care what’s lurking beneath my fridge or about the poop stain on my carpet that just won’t go away.
He’s continually brushing away the unnecessary burdens I have placed upon myself. Refining me and reminding me of my true purpose.
My babies don’t need a mom who works herself into a frenzy over what her walls look like or if their outfits look like they walked right off the set of a Gap commercial.
My babies need a mom who just laughs when a sippy cup full of milk leaks all over the hard wood for the third time in a day and agrees to read Farm Puppy yet again.
My babies need a mom who knows that her most important task of the day is to show them Jesus in her words and actions.
I still fall short. I still yell and then immediately regret not using a soft word instead. I still cry because I think I’m not good enough for them.
I’m failing but my failure reminds to rely on Jesus. My failure is a blessing disguised in tears and yogurt stained leggings.
So, fail my friends. Fail every day and let it refine you. Let it make you more like Jesus for your littles. Let it make you more like Jesus for you.