This is definitely not working for me, this whole working pretty-much-full-time thing.
Well the working thing is working fine. I go to work, I work.
But it's the balancing act. It's the endless juggling. It's not death-defying, it's just I am not coping.
So. Many. Notes. And I can't keep up. Our kitchen table is currently covered in notes:
- This note tells me to send it back for tickets (to which both my children are now telling me I am too late and there are no tickets, and no you can't come)
- This one says I'm to sign and send it back and I will be billed in your next set of fees
- The next one wants to know if I can help with face painting
- The other one is telling me what clothes I need to send with the kids for the concert (and PS you'll be billed for the rest of the outfit in the next set of fees)
- You want your kid to learn recorder, right? So sign and send this back and we'll bill you for the aural pleasure
- This one is telling me I haven't paid our fees
- And here's the weekly newsletter - that you have to read just in case, and by the end of the 14 pages (I am not even exaggerating) you realise that one paragraph related to you
I can not keep up.
I never know what's happening at school.
I am failing this whole working mum, perfect balance, women can have everything thing.
I've dropped so many plates I don't even have a bowl to eat breakfast out ofdotcom
Oh you want me to put a positive spin on it? I am failing successfully.
I am really excelling at being the drop out mum.
I'm the pariah of the playground.
Welcome to my public breakdown.
* Neither of these images reflect what our home looks like. Purely for illustrative, meltdown purposes.
The other day I inadvertently interrupted one of my colleagues speaking with some other work friends. Later, for some reason or another I asked what they had been chatting about.
"Your perfect family."
I cringed. And I'm sure my brow furrowed. And then I cacked myself.
"My family perfect?" And then I laughed hard again thinking about how imperfect my life is.
The perfect family? Don't think so. Far from it.
I quickly popped that bubble - because I am not one for perpetuating myths. I am not perfect. My family is not perfect. Life is not perfect. I quickly jumped to my family's defence and went to town mythbusting.
I rattled off a whole bunch of reasons why our family is not perfect:
- we argue
- our house is a mess
- sometimes we can't pay our bills on time
- we don't really know what we're doing - we just fumble along
- we sometimes struggle to make decisions - big decisions
- I want to move out of Sydney, Matt wants to stay in Sydney
- my kids faces are covered in chocolate
- I struggle juggling family life with work life
- and sometimes we eat crumpets with butter and honey for lunch
There's so much more that makes us imperfect, and delightfully so, but I won't bore you.
But I did keep confirming to her that our family was not perfect, and that there isn't such a thing as a perfect family. With four individuals, there's bound to be conflict, tension, tears, and mess. Everyone has their challenges.
I could go on. And on. And on. But I won't bore you on the reasons why our little family is imperfect. And we're perfectly happy being imperfect.
