A neighbor just stopped by to pick up some homemade broth I made for a detox. Now, this neighbor only half-way jokingly complains about how perfect this mom or that mom is. And I laugh, because I also like to jab at women who appear to have their act together. I especially like to point out when they’re nice as well as beautiful, as if I just added “serial murder” to their list of offences.
Because no one is actually perfect, despite appearances. So when this neighbor left after a brief visit, I wondered if I had anything to add to the fodder of her joke-plaining about other women. I chuckled as I came up with these things that allude to perfection.
I’m now placing my tongue firmly in my cheek, for those who don’t know me well.
First is the reason for her visit: homemade broth. Listen up. I not only boiled carrots, celery, onions, cilantro, garlic and the usual suspected vegetables. I also added kale, daikon AND its greens (for extra perfect points), rutabaga, parsnip, ginger, red cabbage, seaweed and squash. All organic. Simmered in purified water. Score!
Then consider my kitchen, which was momentarily clean. The warm breeze was blowing past my citrus cilantro reed diffuser perched on the windowsill. Our fresh fruit bowl just happened to be overflowing. My little chalkboard announced “It’s a BEAUTIFUL day!” as sung by U2. My daughter was napping peacefully in her Tinkerbell outfit complete with fairy wings. Our tabletop waterfall added to the ambiance with the comforting sound of water trickling onto a pile of stones. The only mess on the floor was a delightful little village of beanie babies playfully placed on miniature wood furniture. Next to that charming scene, my three-pound weights I use to rehabilitate my shoulder. Wait. That sounded imperfect. Scratch that. Oh, and it happened to be the one day of the week that I showered and blow-dried my hair.
Yes, I think I gave her plenty of material to complain about. Funny thing is, I’m so far from perfect that I don’t even know what perfect is anymore. I’d be surprised if it’s as easy to attain as buying this and that, then placing it around the house to make a comfortable home. Cute kids probably help but mine didn’t inherit any adorable genes from me. (One of the many beautiful qualities of adoption: when people compliment my kids’ looks, I can agree because I had nothing to do with it.)
Well, my daughter just screamed from the bathroom that her underwear is wet, my son’s begging to play on my iPad and the pizza I’m about to stuff in the oven has an ingredient list as long as my arm. That ought to make my neighbor feel pretty good right about now.