Dear Mommy Blogger,
You are amazing!
Your body is svelte and chiseled. You are a greek goddess and you look dazzling in that dress you’re wearing.
You made that dress with your own hands, or rather ‘hand’ because your left hand was tied behind your back – just for fun.
The dress is made out of nothing but scraps of plastic Walmart bags you collected from the ocean while rescuing sea turtles caught in garbage.
(How do you manage everything?)
You wear all natural make-up. In fact, the lipstick you’re wearing right now is from the beets that you grew on your own farm. You hand-pressed the beets for their juice and mixed the crimson colored liquid with organic coconut oil. You shaped the all-natural ingredients into a tube of lipstick using molds which you hammered out yourself one evening after you cooked up a GAPS meal for the George Clooney. (He likes to visit sometimes.)
You ‘unschool’ your well-behaved and genius children who have already read all the classics. And gee wiz, if sweet Junip and feisty Cosmo are only four and six years old. Your children are also models for Calvin Klein.
(For real?)
Every day you have exuberant and young-love like sex with your PhD rock-star husband (literally he’s a rock-star and an MIT scientist) on your upcycled kitchen table (because your children are sleeping peacefully in your family bed). You never ever have to worry about faking it. EVER. (You’re careful not to knock over the paleo apple-crunch cooling down, fresh out of the stone oven, which you built by hand during labor with your second child.)
(I saw the pictures! I still couldn’t believe it! Of your labor, silly, not the other stuff.)
Your ec0-friendly ranch style home sits on 25 acres of organic land, it’s perched next to a lake your family has owned for three centuries. You have a chapel directly across from the lake made out of glass and twine. You meditate there every morning at 5am. Sometimes, after your most divine meditations, you write about your revelations of true love – when you do this doves cry.
You maintain a daily 5-mile barefoot run with darling Junip snuggled in your hand-woven wrap, happily breastfeeding on demand as you pound the pavement.
You’ve already written three eBooks and you’re working on a fourth right now. The title is, “How to Parent Without Feeling Any Negative Emotions … Ever, Ever, Ever.” You’re currently taking pre-orders for this book.
You started an orphanage. It’s named after you. Mother Teresa came back from the dead to be there for its grand opening.
Your husband sometimes logs onto your blog so he can write 850 words on what a fantastic woman you are. You are always totally surprised when this happens.
You run giveaways on your blog. Your last prize was a chance to babysit one of your kids. 500,000 people took part. Mother Teresa won.
Your children don’t play with store-bought toys of any sort, ever. Instead they craft toys out of leaves, clay, twigs and Mother Teresa’s stray hairs. (She decided to move in with you to become your nanny.)
You post photos of your home on Instagram. Martha Stewart takes notes.
(Why is every piece of furniture you own white? How do you keep it all so clean?)
HGTV came and took pictures of your house because they were looking for inspiration on their “Dream Home Giveaway.”
You have a Pinterest account and you only pin your own blog posts.
You have a cat named Princeton, he uses the toilet instead of the litter box. You taught him this in under 30 minutes.
(Whew…that’s all really nice, but let me just get honest with you.)
Your home made mattress, the one you crafted out of goose feathers you collected by hand in a field where the geese wandered freely is beautiful, but doesn’t help me much if that’s the only thing you share.
I would like to know a little more about you, your struggles, your honesty, your screw-ups, and your “I can’t believe I did it” successes.
Show me your vulnerability. Tell me your most wicked stories. Share your most humbling learning experience. Tell me where it hurts and why.
Let me know you’re not that much different from me.
Because I really do have enough Barbies in my life, and your perfection only makes me distrust you.
Go ahead include me in your world…
just please don’t try so hard to impress me with your world.
Thanks,
joy.
The Joy of This 