The Perfect Mom

 She does not exist. If she does - and I'm not holding my breath - she's not me.

I was really proud of myself for not losing it when Abby came home from the first day of girl scout camp with broken glasses. Even a reparo spell would not have done the trick, as the lens was missing. There was a little cut by her eye. And I wasn't even angry. Barely annoyed. Just relieved that Abby was okay in spite of face-planting on her glasses and resigned to another round with the insurance companies.

Then there was today. When every. Little. Thing pissed me off. Lizzy had done great on the potty front all day... until she sat down on the girls' gym mat and apparently let go. Abby was alternately whining that she never gets to play late and her friend Kiki had to go in early and it wasn't fair, and freaking out over having touched Lizzy's pee (apparently shrieking is better than washing one's hands. Who knew?) And poor Leanna, here for the night before going back to her camp, was just looking perplexed, like what just happened here? Poor kid. I'm not always a bitch of course, but Leanna has the misfortune of seeing me a few days a month at my worst, without the mitigation of witnessing days on end of my best. Leanna herself has told her mom that I'm not a Wicked Stepmother, but I yell a lot when I get stressed. She's right.

My mom's not perfect either. She's pretty good though. And she is a Pretty Great Grandma, if not a Perfect Mom.

Of course, even the Perfect Moms aren't actually perfect either. They just put on better fronts. And they probably don't out themselves on their own blogs either.