On Repeatedly Failing

I often wonder how hard and how often I can fail before the world throws up its collective arms.

Or at least my husband throws up his arms.

And takes the children far, far away from their perfectionist-seeking neurotic mother.

Tonight, Paul told me that that story was getting old.

I agree.

I’m tired of being irrationally irritated by empty Yakult bottles and sticky plates left behind.

I come home from running errands or hanging at the pool with the kids and that’s all I see.

I see the dishes.

I see the toys.

I see the shoes.

And it all immediately starts chipping away at my mood in an unbelievably rapid pace. It doesn’t matter how chipper I was moments before I unlocked the door, because all that will evaporate like an unattended glass of white wine.

Instead of the dirty dishes I need to see the Sunday pancake breakfast.

Instead of the toys I need to see the sisters that played together peacefully all morning.

Instead of the shoes I need to see the amazing little people I get to share my life with.

Its two sides of the same coin.

Its up to me which side I see.

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2 thoughts on “On Repeatedly Failing

  1. Oh how true Abby! Well said.
    Let’s make a fact to send each other a message on Sunday’s to remind each other of just that πŸ™‚
    In the meantime do remember that you were right there with them in the middle of that pancake breakfast, encouraging the play, and in loving those little and special people in your life more than anything else in the world.

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