The Only Sort Of Perfection There Is

Please spare some time and take a look at this blog post by Stephanie and the link contained within.

I read this and was, for once, quiet quite speechless.  Stephanie just described me!

Both Stephanie and Kelly agree that scrapping is a happy thing.  We feel pressurised to put a happy pretty front for all to see.  but are our lives really like what our blogs portray?

I will admit I do look at others blogs and think 'your life is perfect and mine quite frankly is anything but'. There are so so many women with blogs that I read who are sahm and in happy relationships.  I am struggling to think of blogs that I read who have children the same age as mine, are single and work.  All I see if other women sending little ones off to school and then their days are spent wrapped up in loveliness - they craft, bake and create homes, such wonderful, beautiful homes for their families to return to each evening.

In comparison, I work (what appears to be a rare thing in the crafting world if you have Primary School aged children or younger), I'm single (I have no supporting/understanding s/o), the house is chaos and I mean utter chaos.

Reading these other blogs makes me feel so inadequate in comparison.

But when I sit here and think about it, I have 2 beautiful children, I own my own home, all mine, I have my own money, I don't have to ask for money to buy anything, hell I don't even have to justify my spending habits.  In fact I don't have to justify anything to anyone apart from my heart and those of my children.  They are feed, they have a roof over their heads.  

We are happy as happy can be, just the little 3 of us.

So why do I compare myself to others? Please, someone explain to me.

There may be mess, I may iron our clothes for that day every morning and never ever reach the bottom of the ironing basket.  In fact I never find the bottom of the washing basket either!  But who cares?  Who sees this disorganisation?  If people are invited into our home and don't like what they see, they know where the door is, why do I want to spend my precious time and energy on those who judge me.  

The people I care about know me, they know my children and they know all we have been through.  If they don't understand or for that matter don't like what they see, why are they in our lives?

I therefore conclude with this:

My washing basket is never empty.

May ironing basket is never empty.

Do we make our beds, no, not often.

We quite often don't unload the dishwasher, just get the plates straight from it and use

We have cobwebs, not one, but lots

I always scrap the happy things, but I am going to change this
I may cross 6 things off my to do today list each night but you can be certain I have added at least another 10 to the list.

I have never scrapped about me, just because I find it so hard to put my feelings down on paper, even happy ones (having said that, read this post!  At this present moment, not sure if I will actually press the publish post button)

The father of my children never phones, has no contact with them.  In fact he gave up his job in order not to provide for them financially.

My Children are heart broken their Father does not call.  

I find it so hard trying to explain why their father does not call.

I am appalled he gave up his job just so he does not have to provide for his children.

I do not want nor do we need his money, but this is not the point.

I do not understand, nor believe I ever will understand, how he can just walk away from his children.  

I so want to tell my children what their father is really like, but deep down I know I must let them make up their own minds.  I struggle with this on a daily basis.

I find it incredibly hard juggling everything on my own.

I blame myself entirely about what has happened over the past few years

I love my children

Am I going to paint a pretty picture of my life?  Hell no.  Its my life and no its not pretty and if people don't like that fact, don't be a part of my life and don't read this blog.

But my life is perfect, the only sort of perfection there is.