More Than Yesterday

I wrote this post out in my head at 4:30 am this morning. Fifteen and a half hours later, I can't even remember what I wanted to say. I should have just gotten up and written it. Sigh. You live and you learn, right?

A couple of days ago, a friend of mine posted this picture on my facebook wall, with the caption, "When I saw this, I read it in your voice...probably because you are one that doesn't pretend every day is perfect. And your kids drive you crazy plenty."

Ladies and gentlemen, all of the above is true.

My kids got on my nerves yesterday. Fried my nerves, actually.

I do my best not to pretend that every day is perfect. Because, although there are moments of absolute perfection (like when my daughter grabs our family copy of the Book of Mormon and settles into the rocking chair to flip through the pages because she just needs to "take a break and read scriptures"), the only perfect day I've ever had is my wedding day. And even then I could have done without my dad locking me in the car.

Funny how life changes over time. I was able to have dinner with three of my best high school friends last night. We parked ourselves in Zupas with our soups, salads, bacon paninis and chocolate-dipped strawberries and talked for nearly three hours. At one point, someone asked us what our biggest regrets were from high school. Although we started out talking about things like boys and extracurricular activities, our conversation eventually turned deeper. And, now that I've had 24 hours to ponder that question and conversation, I think that my biggest regret from high school--and to a point, college too--was feeling like I had to be perfect all the time. I felt that was what was expected of me: perfect grades, perfect habits, perfect choices, perfect girl. I had and was none of those things. Maybe it was the "P-Squared" nickname (aka, perfect person, which for real really was one of my nicknames, although I did not give it to myself). Maybe it was my class of constantly-competing, ladder-climbing, accolade-seeking peers. I guess "maybe" it was a lot of things, but mostly, it was me. 

I have an idea of when my perfectionist persona changed, or at least when it started to change. 

Somehow, in the past ten years, I've gone from pretending perfection to embracing imperfection. I'm glad that others can recognize that about me now. It's a wonderful compliment to know that someone, somewhere, acknowledges that you aren't anything more or less than who you present yourself to be. 

To prove this to my friends last night, I demonstrated my cussing ability as per their request. Together, we openly admitted our failures and successes, the simple things that bring us joy (I'm talking about you and that freeing sensation, Tess). We talked about how motherhood is the hardest thing we've ever done, how marriage isn't always perfect but we are so grateful for the men in our lives, how we were all stupid in high school and should have probably kissed a few more boys, how our best memories involved the police, how our girl's nights in algae masks were so much more fun than the dances we didn't get asked to, how we wished we'd realized then we should have taken more time to appreciate the true friendships that we had instead of seeking after false ones. 

Yesterday, as I was rushing to get out the door to meet my friends for dinner, I said goodbye to each of my family members and told them I loved them. As I finished giving her little brother a kiss, Kevin asked me, "Mommy, do you love yourself?"

I smiled and answered honestly, "Sometimes, sweetie."

A few hours later, I realized that I wasn't quite as honest with her as I thought. The truth is, I do love the woman I have become. Despite how far I have to go to reach my true potential, I do love being me.

After all, I'm not perfect.