I love Pinterest and Instagram (like, a lot), but sometimes they leave me feeling less than. As if my unstyled, wild and chaotic life is somehow not good enough when propped up next to gorgeously curated feeds. But, the thing is, they’re all just that: curated. Tiny little snippets of someone’s life that they deem good enough for the universe to judge them on.

While I love the idea of inspirational images feeding our creativity and making us strive to do and be a little bit better, I don’t like the days when I’m left feeling not good enough. I have a tendency to spiral out of control and sometimes all it takes is a well-styled photo of a family that looks like it climbed out of a J. Crew catalog to do just that.

Thinking about this made me decide to take seven random photos of mornings in our house. None of them are styled. The lighting isn’t always particularly good. Our house is messy and our hair is undone, but that’s life. 

I was having a week. The kind of week when every decision I made seemed to be the wrong one. When my patience was a unicorn that had flown somewhere very, very far away. I was a cranky old ogre with barely enough time for a shower and the thought of speaking to anyone in the outside world made me really want a nap.

And then I had to go to a parent-teacher conference.

I don’t know how other people feel about these things, but they always fill me with a weird anxiety—ok, so maybe a lot of things fill me with anxiety, but this is sort of weird, anxious dread. I know I’m going in to talk about one of my daughters, but I always feel like I’m walking in to be judged.

Oh thaaaaaat’s why this kid never shuts up.
How old is this girl?
Is this hot mess really capable of taking care of another human?

Ridiculous? Yes. But that’s kind of the thing about anxiety, isn’t it? So I walk in, immediately more awkward than normal. And I’m pretty awkward.

Usually I wear multitasking like a bad ass badge of honor. Yes, I answered emails while carrying a whiny preschooler on my hip and navigating an extra large cart around the grocery store like a champ. Because I’m a BOSS.

Only not really.

Because, when I’m being totally honest with myself, multitasking never results in a job well done. My email will be partially incoherent, I’ll inevitably forget something essential at the store and my four year old and I will be so irritated with each other that we’ll both be whining shrilly and ready to full-on tantrum by the time I slam the trunk of the car.

When your attention is split in 87 different directions you can’t possibly do a good job.

So why do we (women in particular) place so much of our self worth on exactly how many balls we have up in the air?

I’m pretty sure I have never in my life craved a rejection letter so badly.

I think it’s safe to say that most of us are not fans of rejection, right? It leaves you with a sick feeling way down deep in your stomach and can lead to weeks of just wanting to take a nap and/or shove as much sugar and processed food in your face as your napping schedule will allow. It sucks.

But do you know what sucks more? Not getting rejected and listening to the deafening sound of crickets while your hope swings wildly by the weakest of threads. Are you idiotic to hold onto that hope? Because they probably don’t want you, right? But. Buuuuuut. They haven’t exactly said no, so maybe, just maybe, that might turn into a yes? You talk yourself around and around in neurotic circles until you’re so dizzy you don’t know what to think.

Let me give this some context.

“I didn’t pack pants.” I. didn’t. pack. pants.

I packed twelve changes of clothing, slippers, bathrobes, and a variety of car toys for the girls. But I did not pack myself pants.

Yes, I had a pair of sweatpants that were not meant to be seen by anyone who had no choice but to be stuck with me and a pair of leggings so worn that my ass was one rogue thread away from a nice summer breeze. But I had no actual pants to wear as I walked the halls of Great Wolf Lodge.

My husband looked at me with an eyebrow raised and I kind of wanted to pluck it off of his face. “How do you not remember pants?” asks he who only worried about packing for one human—and a human who wouldn’t have a total meltdown if he forgot something “essential” like the correct pair of patterned socks.