My Perfectionism is Confused

Have you met me IRL?

I'm kind of that mom that doesn't have it together. Usually sort of frazzled, usually running late, and often looking like I just rolled out of bed with yesterday's makeup still on (guilty!). I'm a mess.

If you've been to my house, chances are you've had the same impression. It's sort-of-kind-of-clean-ish, but there are always corners & shelves with nondescript things sitting around, and dog hair and dishes and the occasional small pile of goldfish crackers. It's a mess.

I do not have a show home. In fact, I am lucky enough to be living in the ugliest house in the world. The 'architecture' is 'interesting'. The 'landscaping' is California wilderness, and while we love it, we're pretty hard-pressed to find time to keep it brush free. And the poultry thing (FUN FACT): apparently chicken feathers just fall out of them and get stuck in the brush and never come out. It's a mess.

And yet... we're mostly happy here. It's hard work and far away and there's always something needing done, but it can be so peaceful. It can be so fun. It can be actually, literally living the dream.

I think the reason that it sometime isn't is because of my misguided, misaligned, leftover oldest-child pull toward perfectionism. At some point my mindset of high achievement & meeting goals turned into "if it can't be done perfectly, don't bother." It sounds so lame when I write it down. It's so ridiculous to not do any dishes because I won't be able to finish all of them, including scrubbing the entire room, floor, counters, and cabinets. It's so lame to not enjoy our house and the beautiful things about it because some walls have scratches, the deck is tired, and the outside is scrubby.

Living in a fixer-upper (with SO MUCH fixing yet to be done) on five acres that all need fixing-upping is a challenge. But it's a beautiful, wonderful challenge. We spent the afternoon yesterday doing yard work. I didn't take before pictures because I'm a bad blogger, but there was an awful lot of waist-high, dead, brown mustard, and some awful weeds that have the worst "pokies" ever. It was really only about two hours of me & Jake working, but it ended up looking like this:

I mean, come on.

Sure, it's a bit brown and grey and crunchy, but it sure as hell ain't anything to complain about. There are lots of other spaces in our square that need work, but just look at this. It's beautiful. It's peaceful. It's the best place in the whole wide world for our boys to explore, and the chickens went crazy eating all of the bugs we scared up when we were chopping the weeds down.

I think I chase perfectionism in a lot of areas of my life, and tend to only see how things aren't perfect. My boys are healthy and smart and relatively well-behaved, but I sometimes focus on their bad-attitudes (while ignoring my own, of course). My husband is hard working, kind, intelligent, and hilarious, but sometimes I forget that when I'm annoyed at how much he works (to support ME staying home with our boys, for the love). Our house is big enough that we're able to open it to refugees, but I'm uncomfortable with things I don't know and I'm afraid they'll be uncomfortable with how weird it is, ignoring that pretty much America is going to be weird to them. I have been saved by the grace of God, and the blood of Jesus has made me clean & a daughter of the Holy One, but I can't/don't always act in a way that is pleasing to Him or worthy of my calling, so obviously I'm the worst and I'm definitely going to hell and taking everyone who has contact with me along. 

When I'm not being a perfectionist, my family is wonderful, my house is rad, strangers are always worth talking to, and Jesus still loves me. 

The funny thing is, all of those things are true, even when I don't feel it. 

My life isn't perfect, but when it comes down to it, I really like it. It's beautiful (and probably much too easy). I found some pictures to remind me of that.

Piles of concrete are perfectly acceptable play structures, right? We have snake fencing.

"Dancing/wrestling/spinning" is a perfectly acceptable form of exercise, right?

It is figuratively insane how cute this is, right?

Helping me feed the chickens, in full safety gear, of course. 

I'm just saying, I never found weird-ass wizard king moths when I lived in a pretty house. 

Dat sky, tho. 

Mmmm... probably safe. Ish. 

I can see sunrises like this any time I'm awake enough (so like twice a year).

And sunsets FTW.

Wild fennel looks and smells like magic.

So technically he picked this from a gardening box, which we could have anywhere. He's just cute. 

Tiny, pretty things make me glad. This was on our enormous century plant after rain.

Ghostlights. They only turn on after the rain.

So happpppppy, making out with that bone. 

It's a wonderful life. 

So what do you think? Is your life just as 'perfect' as mine, or am I an asshole for my privileged perspective? Tell me all about it in the comments.