Monica's Closet

It has been brought to my attention that I recently may have fallen into the trap of "keeping up with the Joneses" in my blogging, or trying to keep my posts a little too polished and braggy to depict real life. Needless to say, the thought struck a chord of horror within me (it was a diminished A-flat minor, if you must know). Far be it from me ever to want to be a Jones, let alone keep up with them! The last thing I want is to write one of those blogs that no one can stand to read because they are filled with nothing more than the cute finger-paintings I orchestrated for pre-school or the fun, fantasy-filled outings and vacations we go on or over-photoshopped pictures of my kids or (my greatest annoyance) what I wore each day! 

And that's all.

No healthy doses of reality, no tales of the throw-em-down-drag-em-out tantrums in Target, no painted walls that were not painted on purpose and with something other than paint, no calling poison control. (There's a reason I keep that ticker over there! Just to remind me to keep it real.)

I will grant you that sometimes I fall into this trap, where I find myself focusing only on the things I am most proud of as a mother. That is not because I want to pretend my life is always perfect or brag about how wonderful I am or how wonderful my children are, but I do it for myself so I can feel validated that in all the daily trouble and turmoil and sheer hard work, I am at least doing something right.

But it means I am failing in my purpose of recording these days in the first place.

My purpose is not to have the shiniest, most perfect life with the least disappointments and the fewest messes, and if my life was like that, what would it be for?

One of my favorite quotations is from Marjorie Hinckley:

"I don’t want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully, tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails. I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking kids to scout camp. I want to be there with grass stains on my shoes from mowing Sister Schenk’s lawn. I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbor’s children. I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping to weed someone’s garden. I want to be there with children’s sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder. I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived."

And that says it all, I think.

When I look back over my children's childhood and what I've recorded over the years, I don't want to think, "Oh look how perfect and sparkling my children were!" "We always did such fun, educational activities!" or "My house was so spotless all the time!"

I want to think, "That was so HILARIOUS! I can't believe she/he/we did that!" "HA! How did my children ever survive childhood?" and "I completely forgot how HARD that was, but look how we all came out on top!"

That is my view of life.

Life is not a contest.

It's a CONQUEST.

Once someone told me they loved some of my recent blog posts because I made them feel better about their own life! HA! Far from being offended, I was so thrilled to feel useful!

And so, without further ado (well, maybe a little more ado), I have an early Christmas gift for all the *REAL* moms out there.

Not the supermoms.

Supermoms, prepare your shocked gasps and perhaps a swoon or two.

And Google the phone number for Missouri State Mental Health.

Because I have a vulgar revelation for you that I have been laborious hiding from mother and mother-in-law alike for some time now. I can't even tell you how hard it is to post this for all to see.

I am going to show you

[deep breath]

The Basement.

Now wait, before you feel disappointed and anti-climactic and think, "Whatever. My basement/playroom/kids' room is a mess too," you have to understand the magnitude of the situation.

It has been this way for a long time. I gave up and just ignore it.

Until the part where I have to bring someone down there for some reason and have to try to explain myself. Or when my friends and I HAVE to compulsively catch up on our Downton Abbey, which we have to watch in the basement, so we just wade our way through the mess and hope we don't lose our children.

It's completely inexcusable and embarrassing.

And the pictures do not even show it in its full glory.

(And yes, those are children playing in the background, and they are not even all mine.

I actually hosted a play group in this basement!)

So, here it is in all its glory, so you can all feel better about whatever it is that was guilting you today.

REAL LIFE!

Merry Christmas, real moms of the world!