I think we often do a disservice to our friends with our Facebook status updates, tweets, and maybe even blog posts. I often get caught up in the humor of the day, or the smells of what I'm baking, or the moments when my boys are not screaming or hitting but in fact smiling smiles that would put the sun to shame, and throw it out there in social media. I've been reading lately about how easy it is for people to feel inadequate when they see what their friends are pinning on Pinterest, photos of perfectly happy-all-the-time children on Facebook, and immaculate homes with no hint of clutter. But what people choose to publish to the world wide web tend to be examples of the best of their accomplishments. Or, if you're like me, when there are things worth celebrating- such as baking a mean zucchini bread before a certain toddler wakes up to trash the kitchen- that happy nugget is what gets shared. More often, say, than what happens when that certain toddler wakes up.
Maybe we don't post about the constant annoyances and frustrations that happen throughout the day for fear that it could be boring. Maybe because it can be read as complaining, and others may roll their eyes and think, well, what did you think would happen when you had kids? Maybe because we'll seem ungrateful. Or not good enough.
I created a pleasant environment today by keeping a warm pot on the stove filled with water, a cinnamon stick, orange peels, vanilla, and cloves. Seems kind of pretentious, maybe even a little Martha Stewart-y. But the peels came oranges that were peeled the day before and sat on the counter because I didn't want to unload the dishwasher because I hate doing it, and so every other dish sat out until I finally accomplished it. And the reason I did such a pretentious thing is because there is a poopy diaper sitting in a plastic bag somewhere and for the stinky life of me, I can't find it. Cloves and cinnamon and old fruit peels were simply a cover-up.
I had tortellini soup in a crock pot by 10am today for tonight's dinner. But what you should know is that the recipe I used literally called for 4 packaged ingredients (jarred pasta sauce, chicken broth, cream cheese, and store-bought tortellini). Couldn't have made less effort if I tried. Or didn't try.
Dinner had to be easy because I had to bring the boys to my workplace to pick up my paycheck tonight. An excursion to the outside world takes up a chunk of time in our evening, which is a good thing in terms of having something to do; but it also requires careful calibration of food and toileting before we can leave the house. If I can remove one variable by making an easier dinner, it gives me one thing that falls into place.
Or not. After Oliver whined for 45 minutes that he wanted zucchini bread now (while the bread was still in the oven), we sat down to a plateful of more whining. "I don't like tortellini. I don't like spinach. I don't like anything." It was another 45 minutes of convincing, lecturing, ignoring, pleading, a phone call to Daddy, reasoning, and begging before I got him to take one bite of everything on his plate. Ah. Finally, we can leave.
Except that when I asked Oliver to go potty, he happily announced he had locked the bathroom door. And so he had. We have two doors to our bathroom and he had locked them both before shutting the doors from the outside. Yes, yes, we have that skinny key thing to undo the lock, but I couldn't get it to work and Oliver taunted "you can't fix it, you can't fix it" in a na-na-na, na na-na voice (which they learn by age 3, by the way). So I send him upstairs to go potty while I get Charlie in his shoes. Oliver comes back down and can't find his socks, and whines about this four times while I'm helping Charlie. This is when I smell something. Charlie poops just as I have him all ready. I change his 34-wipe diaper explosion while Oliver sings poop songs over us. He resumes his whining that he can't find his socks while I throw this diaper away properly and go to wash my hands but realize again that I'm still locked out of the bathroom. After going all the way upstairs to wash my hands, I find Oliver's socks which have been in my back pocket the whole time. I wait for another 5 minutes while Oliver puts on his socks and shoes with unnecessary theater. I let the boys in the garage when Oliver closes the door on Charlie's hand. After the screaming resolved, I realize I can't find Charlie's sippy of milk, an absolute necessity for going anywhere in or out of the house. Exasperated, I check on the boys who are wandering in the garage and watch Charlie drinking his milk from the sippy I'm looking for.
On the way, I call my work to let them know I'm coming in to pick up my paycheck- (by this point, because of the antics, I won't be there until 8pm, which can be a very busy time at the hospice with meds and cares, so I called in case they wanted to pull out my paycheck to have it ready so I wouldn't need to interrupt the nurses). A nursing assistant said she would let the nurse know I was coming. After Oliver complained every 2 minutes of the 30 minute drive that it takes such a long, long time to get there, I get a voicemail from the nurse: my paycheck wasn't there, and she was hoping her call would save me a trip.
Too late. I had promised my boys they could play in the play area and have some ice cream and see where I worked. And after the effort of getting them into the car...well, I was having ice cream too. After our visit, we drove home with exhausted Charlie screaming at the top of his lungs for 90% of the commute. I stopped by the mailbox before we pulled into the driveway...and there was my paycheck.
All of this to say: no, people do not have it together. At least we don't. Behind every posted picture of a grin is the beginning of a tantrum (like the one that landed me a kick to the face this evening), and in the middle of the recipe that is shared is a measure of sugar accidentally flung into the bra of my camisole (yes, this happened, too). But what we choose to record permanently tend to be the moments that we actually want to remember, so that we can get up the next morning and do it all over again.
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