This morning, I inadvertently stumbled across a perfect Instagram feed. You know the kind I'm talking about. 20 somethings with a one year old wearing arrow print leggings and a fox graphic tee shirt that probably cost more than my kids' last three outfits combined. Her hair is long and artfully braided into messy plaits, her mom clothes are all brand name and flattering.They live in a tiny house on the beach. They have white couches and potted plants all around their tiny house. White couches. And potted plants. WITH A ONE YEAR OLD.
As I lay there in my bed-which is in my living room, remember?-and kept scrolling, all the time telling myself, "Stop this. Stop it right now, look away RIGHT. NOW.", I felt myself sinking into doldrums. After several minutes, I finally threw the phone down. Then I sat up and looked around my house. My house that I would be ashamed to have many of my closest friends come into. Sure, it's tiny. Tiny houses are so "in" these days, right? What the hipsters don't know- or won't admit- is the struggles of a family of five living on top of each other.
I have baskets of laundry everywhere. EVERY. WHERE. Some are clean. Some are dirty. Some are outgrown and need to be gone through.
As I got up this morning and began the grueling task of getting my kids up for school, I noted the sink and its surrounding counters full of last night's (okay, okay, and the night's before that too) dishes. The bathroom still showed the signs of the previous night's bedtime prep, hot pink toothpaste smeared in the sink, splatters on the mirror, used braces rubber bands, empty toilet paper rolls and damp towels on the floor. The main living area- also my bedroom- that I worked so hard all night on Friday to clean, organize, and decorate for Christmas looked like I had never touched it.
Friends, I'll be honest with you all. I cried. I'm crying right now. And I'm asking myself, what is wrong with me? The other moms can do it. I know they can, because Instagram tells me so! In a world where everyone wants to be beautiful, or rich, or famous, all I want is to be organized. It's true. In my weak moments, all I want is to be an Instagram mom.
I always dreaded my kids growing up like I did. Too many kids, not enough room, laundry everywhere, grab the bag of cereal on the way out the door because we didn't make breakfast, hollers of, "There's no more toilet paper!!" from the bathroom and Mom making a mad dash to the car to look for fast food napkins. Because, oh yeah, we're out of napkins too, from the LAST time we ran out of toilet paper, remember? I didn't get my hair washed today, and as I'm sitting in my car preparing to go into my girls' school for honor roll ceremony, I realize that the weight in my purse that I took for my makeup bag is actually a bag of Christmas candy.
This is my life. Hair unwashed, makeup-less face about to be shown in all its glory to various members of the PTA, and while I cried over the makeup bag, the Christmas candy is providing some comfort.
This is my life. Holding back tears while I dig through laundry baskets for just ONE clean shirt that isn't wrinkled beyond recognition, biting out, "I don't KNOW where any socks are, do I look like I have my s*** together in life??" to a fellow tiny house dweller (I won't say which, so the judging stays below sea level). Diet Pepsi and Nestlé Crunch bells for breakfast. And knowing, that when I get back home, it's all going to be there waiting for me, staring me in the face, screaming accusations that I can not and never will get myself together in life, and everyone else with their white walled, white furnished houses and their minimalist styled collage walls, their artfully ripped jeans and their homegrown gardens and artisan coffees obviously have gotten some memos that I must have missed while in the trenches.
This is NOT a cry for help. Please, please do not call or message me offering to help with laundry, to give me organizing tips, or recommend meal planning apps. That's not what I'm trying to accomplish here.
You all know, or at least I hope you do, that I have never tried to be anything but honest. Real. Not pretty. Not Instagram worthy. Although I would almost kill to be organized, what I have is reality.
I get a lot of compliments on my honesty. I never quite know how to respond to those. A thank you doesn't seem fitting. A kindly cloaked chastisement of, "what kind of world do we live in where honesty is associated with bravery?" seems a bit harsh. Not everyone wants to put their crap out there, I get it. I don't necessarily want to put mine out there, but somehow it always ends up happening so I've learned to live with it. And the amount of comments and texts I get after a post like this prove to me that our social media driven society is sadly lacking in reality. Part of that is because we flock in droves to the pretty things. The Instagram account that sent me into this spiral has over fifty thousand followers. Fifty. Thousand. Not because the account is honest, gritty, this is real life and I'm living it the best I can. Because it's pretty. And it is. Oh, it's gorgeous. Light soaked and peaceful and pretty. And I'm sure- I hope, at least- that this beautiful woman and mother, with her thigh gap and heather joggers and floppy brimmed felt hats, her baby with his $75 wooden toys- I'm sure that she would be appalled to know that her beautiful life and photos sent me and others like me into an existential tailspin. We're all in this together, after all.
But what I'm suggesting is this: instead of pressing our noses up to the sparkly glass windows of others' perfect social media lives, while at the same time being shocked into admiration and grudging respect for those like me- the ugly honest ones- let's ALL be honest. Stop perpetuating the myth that perfection is attainable while praising those who admit they will never attain it. We've embraced a false life, buying in to it like it's a product we can own. Like those feminine product commercials-- like I'm really going to be dancing in a field of white daisies wearing a white dress on day two of my period?? Ain't no tampon in the world, ladies, am I right?? And yet while we scoff at unrealistic marketing ploys, we swallow whole the white daisies/white dress lives of those around us, wanting so desperately for it to be true because if they can do it, there's got to be a snowball's chance in Dixie that I can too, right?? No. No more than I could dance in a field in the midst of debilitating cramps.
Friends, what ARE we, if we cannot be honest? I am so passionate about this. My Instagram feed will probably never have tens of thousands of followers. You won't look at it and in first glance see a uniformity that is aesthetically pleasing. You will not find only the perfect moments captured and shared.
What you will find is me. Ofttimes overwhelmed, occasionally makeup-less and hair unwashed, surrounded by never ending piles of laundry and dishes, homework, temper tantrums, chaos and noise, laughter, tears, laziness, spurts of panic, love. What you'll find is LIFE, lived in front of you, without social media's "perfect" filter applied. You may not like it. That's totally fine. Most days, I don't like it either. But I'm living it. I invite you to live it with me.
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