The irony of my life is that I'm a perfectionist who hates perfection. I like planning ahead, color-coordinated closets, and detailed task lists boasting completions. And yet I also love out-of-the-box thinking, clashing patterns, and broken-in furniture.
I love taking risks yet fear the unknown.
I hate clutter but love messes.
I get high from balancing my precisely-pennied checkbook and yet I feel suffocated under the pressures of a strict budget.
And when I look at my kids, I already see this dichotomy influencing their lives. Most days at home they spend half-dressed with their hair in disarray because I simply adore them to look like kids, not dolls. And yet each one of their toys has a home and each book a shelf because I can't stand to find things misplaced.
While we almost always eat lunch at 11a sharp, the highlight of the meal is watching crumbs fall into their laps and peanut butter smear across their faces, the tiring consequences of learning to feed oneself and use utensils.
The beauty of this conundrum is that when I look at my babies, I see the perfect blend of perfection and imperfection.
They are perfectly beautiful, perfectly chaotic, perfectly innocent, and perfectly goofy. And most of all, they are perfect for me.