Over the last year and a half I’ve had a good, long laugh at my pre-kid self and all the things I said I would absolutely, never in a million years, ever, do. As an example, Logan and I have taken a certain amount of pride in being anti-TV for nearly a decade. Yet here we are today, reciting the lines from Masha and The Bear from memory because that’s what happens when you watch all 17 episodes 47 times each with your kid. Thanks, Netflix. No seriously, thank you so much Netflix, I love you. There’s a long list of unplanned for transgressions but there’s a really big one I need to address today.
I call it The Perfect Myth and it lives on Facebook. Have you noticed? My hair looks awesome, I’m wearing actual eyeliner, and my clothes are astonishingly unstained. Pearl is beaming with dimples that will make your heart soar and somehow, my husband looks oddly pleased to be in a field or grassy expanse in the middle of a work day. This is not real life, this is The Perfect Myth.
Before our daughter was born I had grand plans, I was going to be a real mom, honest and genuine about all of it. And that’s the beauty of real life, I get to be that real mom every day. Turns out real life is tough, messy and immune to my controlling tendencies. So Facebook is my perfectly manicured lawn, my award-winning rose garden, the calm, beautiful facade I maintain as a reward for the reality I tend each day. It contains those moments that happen either purely by accident or in that five-second window where preparation, prayer, and bribery pay off with the help of a professional photographer. I feel like I’ve earned this carefully crafted social existence. By now, we’re all in on the social media joke, aren’t we? We know that Facebook is whatever we want it to be and the punchline doesn’t actually matter which is why I’m not sorry about The Perfect Myth, not even a little bit.