*POP*

When I was young and clueless, I had certain expectations and plans for my life. Of course, most of my dreams and schemes were idealistic and were supposed to happen almost effortlessly. Somewhere along life's path, from the point of naive dreaming to the present moment, someone hid behind a figurative tree and using a blow dart (or arrow or musket or rifle or long range missile), they popped my "perfect life" bubble.

I wish I could live briefly in a sci-fi/fantasy plot and go back to visit my younger self and lay some groundwork for the truths of life that would knock me flat on my rear. I'd probably start with mentioning that just because they're an adult, it doesn't mean they're right and you're wrong. That might really make a difference in the choices I would soon be faced with. On the flip side, I hope my kids don't figure that out for a little while longer. Even better, I hope I WILL be right so they will be well-taught and prepared for life's attacks and challenges.

I used to think my house would be well-kept and a cozy haven against the wicked world. Somehow, more of the wicked world got in than I wanted and I can't think of a single thing that is well-kept. Even the ceilings have cobwebs!

I used to imagine heart-warming scenes of together time with my kids. We would play games, read stories, bake cookies, do crafts and anything else idyllic to mother-child bonding. What I ended up with was games and books scattered from one end of the house to the other and kids who started fighting over who got to pick the game or story, and didn't stop until the fight over who had to put it away. I avoid doing anything at all in the kitchen because of the huge mess that only I seem to be able to clean up. And crafts? I'm doing better, but I still have to gear myself up for the event.

Of course, I was going to be so loving and concerned over my children's injuries that a smile and a hug would be far more effective than a band-aid. What we have evolved into is that the kids now take care of their own injuries (unless they are real, in which case I step in and admonish them to stop crying and be more careful next time) and then I just get to pick up all the trash from the discarded packaging. Thankfully, a hug and and a cuddle do still have some value, but the kids would much rather get a box of band-aids in their Christmas stockings. You should see their reactions when people outside of the family offer to "kiss the boo-boo." Picture: "Are you daft?"

With all of my training in education and the hours I spent learning to manage behavior, I was certain my kids would have perfect manners. And I have to give them some credit; they do behave well a lot of the time. It's not uncommon for strangers to approach our family while we're out and compliment the kids on how well they are behaving. And I usually feel bad after I say it's because we threatened them before we walked in. But I still say it. It's the frustration I feel when they don't have perfect behavior as soon as I demand it that surprises me the most. I try to remind myself that they're kids (but they're my kids and supposed to be flawless, darn it)!

Then there's the issue of my physical appearance. (I'm about to get startling honest here.) I never thought I would be so overweight or dissatisfied with my appearance. When I look in the mirror, I am surprised to see how big I really am. I don't feel like I'm 178 pounds, or anywhere near it. It's so frustrating to think I've made progress and find out I'm really doing worse! Also, I would have expected to be familiar with my own face after having it for 36 years. It, too, looks different than I expect and I'm usually better off to look away than try more flattering pinches or pulls. It's possible that these reasons are why I've stopped really trying to improve myself. I apply make-up once a week. I don't feel badly about that, but I'm not sure what message it sends. Another "gone to pot" housewife here!

Somewhere along life's path, I missed the lesson on enjoying the little moments. So often I meet people who say how fun little kids are or what special memories things are, and I think they are a little crazy. I didn't have one ounce of fun trying to keep Joseph from destroying the store we were in today. Rebekah seemed to want to encourage him, and I had to lug around 20ish awkward pounds of baby-in-a-carseat. Some lady there mentions to me how fun they are at that age. Apparently, I'm WAY too grouchy because I totally missed the fun part. Maybe it's just fun to watch. Either way, it's something new to feel guilty about; I'm missing the fun.

Now, I don't think my kids are all bad and never enjoyable. I laugh a lot and witness a lot of caring moments between them. I will miss the little kid in each of them when they grow up, but sometimes it seems like they never will!

So my life isn't what I expected. My bubble has been popped by real life's darts. My house is a mess, my kids would rather fight than get along, I can't remember the last time I slept through the night, my body has been overtaken by someone else's body, my kids don't snap to attention when I clear my throat, blah, blah, blah.

My new plan is to clean up the sudsy mess from my popped bubble and use it to clean up my life a little and figure out how the heck to make my imperfect life the perfect one for me.