I used to want to be perfect. I really did. I would work very hard at it as a matter of fact. Always striving to try to keep up with a vision I had of what my life should look like. The problem, was all that got me was an eventual red wine stain down my white shirt and a barrage of F bombs out of my mouth. Consider the illusion shattered.

Now, I’m kind of just wheeling through life like “Oh well, this is what you get”. There are just certain things that I’ve had to make peace with. I will never be a perfect mother (whatever that even means). It’s almost inevitable that I’ll give my son terrible advice at some point because, well, sometimes I’m terrible. I sometimes yell, I often swear, I always make mistakes. I am for lack of a better definition, perfectly imperfect.

Let’s not be getting ahead of ourselves here. I can declare imperfection, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still vain. Of course there is a certain way I would like to look. Isn’t that human nature? However, I’ve come to learn that the only time someone can ever pretend to be perfect and get away with it is in photos. You can set up the perfect illusion of hair done, makeup on, outfit on point, airbrushing and a smiling family that looks so happy. Darlings, I hate to break this to you, but that’s not life. You can go onto my Instagram at any point and think that I’m really pulling myself together. Chances are, you can’t see my sweatpants because I’ve cropped them out. There have been filters used (sometimes more than one), and I’ve probably chosen to take the picture because it’s that time of the week when I actually put makeup on. Not because I want to give off in any way that I’m perfect, just because I’m vain and I would rather post a picture where I look human rather than something that’s been pulled out of a drain.

If you really wanted a glimpse into my life, you would find no makeup, hair up in a bun, sweatpants, a tank top (right now it has a mustard stain on it and I’m not even lying), and dog hair as far as the eye can see. My son is sometimes mouthy. My husband is sometimes a jerk. I can be the worst person you’ve ever met. The thing is though, we are happy. We have hit a point where it’s ok to not dress my son like a model every time he leaves the house. Mainly because kids keep you honest whether you want to be or not and he would rat me out for making him wear something he hates. He would tell everyone he came into contact with. My husband and I would resent each other if we had to keep up an illusion of something that we aren’t. He’s not Brad Pitt when he lures around in his sweatpants and I’m sure as hell no Angelina Jolie ever. We make each other laugh and we see past each other’s flaws. Isn’t that enough?

I can’t pretend to be perfect, nor do I want to. I’m too tired for that shit. The friends in my life love me for my messy hair and sweatpants. They know what they’re getting when they come here. They know that if we go out there’s a really good chance that I’ll drink too much, or that I’ll trip and fall, or that I’ll rub an eyebrow off. They’re ok with it, and dare I say even look forward to it a little bit.

Thank you to all the ladies in my life that keep it honest about what life is. It gives me the strength to be honest about mine. We all have relationship problems, parenting hurdles, body issues, insecurities and not enough hours in the fucking day. It’s great to know I can tackle all of those things without being judged if my eyeliner is perfect or not. It actually doesn’t matter if you have an off day where things aren’t what you think they should be. That’s what gives each of us our charm.

So, here’s to the ladies that don’t know what a helicopter mom is or that can’t do a Pinterest project without it turning out like shit. The ones who will drop a cake that’s freshly out of the oven and will swear about it. The ones that show me strength every time they can admit to having a bad day, or even a bad month. I see you being unapologetically imperfect. And I love it.