Getting Creative

I have this weird love affair with the Ideal Mother.  You know, the one who bakes all her food from scratch with only organic ingredients.  The one who sews cute little outfits for her children and makes dainty crafts and quilts.  The one who practices yoga and channels the Earth Goddess in her spare time.  Not to mention writing books and keeping an updated blog with beautiful photos of her daily handiwork.  This is also the Mother who has at least three children, makes her own lotions and detergents so as not to introduce harmful chemicals to her wee ones. 

You know her, right?  She’s out there.  Somewhere.  I see her manifest on other women’s blogs: Angry Chicken, SimpleMom, and countless others that I’m only beginning to find.  I mean, I really want to be Her.  I want to embody Her.  Or, at the very least be exactly like the women who more closely resemble Her.  There’s evidence out there that the modern hippie woman exists and manages to be successful in the world.

It’s just that I can’t be Her.  I can’t even seem to find the patience or the time to let Her root in my life.  My kids are constantly whining or fighting with each other.  Even if I am home with them and we’re hanging out, it’s a continual ploy to play Princess or some other melodrama.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been married.  Or how many birthdays I’ve had.  By this point, I probably qualify for mention in the Book of Genesis.

If we do crafts, we are messy and chaotic.  I can’t possibly post those pictures!  Even if something comes out cute, my house is a cluttered mess.  It’s far too easy to tell what a Ragga Muffin Mother I really am.  The gig will be up for sure!  I mean, I can post the pictures, but nobody is going to pay much attention to them.  (Okay, aside from my friends and family.  And thank God for them or I’d really be miserable.  Hugs to you all for reading this.)

My dilemma is that nobody will ask me to write a book about all my fantastic crafty ideas or sell my creations when it’s so obvious that I can hardly stay focused on task long enough to bring my ideas to fruition.  To be honest, I just have the terrible habit of beginning something new and not finishing it.  My children just exacerbate that tendency.

So, why the love affair with Her?  Why do I insist on torturing myself?  Why not replace Her with the Goddess of Mediocre?  The Messy Mother?  Surely She has qualities I can admire.

I don’t know.  I hate giving up entirely, I guess.  Maybe somewhere, deep down, I still think there’s a chance for us.  I’m hopeless, I know.  Because sometimes I feel Her.  Sometimes She IS there. 

Is She just teasing me?  Torturing me?  That’s not like Her, is it?  Or maybe it is and the other women just aren’t talking about Her in that way.

Just me.  Right?  I just have to believe that these other women are imperfect, too, that they sometimes yell at their children, that they buy cheap cosmetics on a whim or because they were impulsive or distracted or frazzled by exhaustion and hunger.  That they throw away a few vegetable scraps in the trash rather than the compost because the walk over to the compost bin is just too far away this time.  That they give in when their children cry and whine for a product Made in China or Pakistan or wherever human rights are probably being violated today.  That sometimes getting them chicken nuggets from a McDonald’s is as good as it gets.  Even though they’ve seen the videos that show what goes into them and vowed they wouldn’t do it.

This is what plagues me.  It’s the slow deterioration of my ideals with reality, with my humanity.  It’s the desire for Her when all I’ve got is me.  I just don’t know how to bring Her into my life more.  I don’t know how to make more space for Her. 

I still believe there’s a chance, though.  For now, that’s good enough for me.

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