(Image courtesy of Google & Norman Rockwell)
I’m sorry, but we can’t be Facebook friends anymore.
Its not you- its me.
Well, actually, its me being jealous of the perfect life you portray. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.
Normally, I can try and be happy for you. I WANT to be happy for you. I LONG for the feelings of genuine pleasure when I see your posts of your perfectly portrayed life.
I’ve even told myself to “fake it til I make it”, but today *sigh* today was the last straw.
Today- after I found cat food dumped into the toilet ; found cat litter (and poop) strewn about the bathroom floor; dealt with a toddler meltdown of epic proportions because I wouldn’t let him suck down an tube of Oragel; listened to fights over video games that started before any sane person should get up during the summer; stepped on THE SAME BLOCKS I had already told the boys to pick up 50 TIMES today; and then found my purse, with all its contents scattered over ever inch of my bedroom floor- I logged onto Facebook and got a virtual punch to my gut from your post.
There were your sweetpeas, like a Norman Rockwell painting, in all your perfectly portrayed glory, doing something perfect-
And I just can’t deal.
I know- I’m behaving irrationally and making hasty decisions. I’m blaming it on lack of sleep since- while your little darlings slept through the night with visions of sugar plums dancing through their heads, allowing you to wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed enough to go get a fancy coffee after eating a hearty, homemade, organic breakfast and then get in a workout sans kids- my night and morning was a TAD less smooth. I went to bed with a toddler who took up half my space, got woken up in the middle of the night by a kid who had a nightmare and wanted to sleep with us, too, and then realized that my small amount of space had grown even smaller with the addition of the family pets. I was then woken up WAY too early, made coffee myself, justified my coffee as my breakfast since that was all I had time for, and prayed for nap time. And while your husband gets normal days off, mine works EVERY SINGLE DAY, so getting his help isn’t an option.
So, yeah- I’m tired, and bitter, and jealous, and MAYBE acting a little childish- call it a side effect from dealing with 4 imperfect boys in all their imperfection.
You’re a nice person- sickeningly so- but I’m just not mature enough to be happy for you 24/7- but, at least, I’m mature enough to admit to that.
And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe your life isn’t perfect. Maybe, like most of us, you’re just posting the highlights, and you keep your dirty laundry hidden away; but, while your highlights include you being crowned Miss America for the 5th time in a row, my highlight reel might sound more like,”Yay! I made it through the day without any kid poop incidents!” Which also leads me to believe that your dirty laundry is just that- you have a load of dirty laundry that *gasp* you haven’t done in 3 days… because you were building a house with Habitat for Humanity.
I’m honestly NOT a “misery loves company” kind of girl, but your sparkly life is blinding me.
Like I said, its not you, its me.
But if a day should ever come when you really do have a crisis in your life, you’re always welcome to call on me. We can hide in my laundry room, sit on my oversized pile of dirty laundry, and attempt to block out the sounds of my boys trying to off each other, and I’ll listen as long as you need me to. Chances are I’ve been there.
And I’ll try REALLY hard not to silently cheer if I see spinach caught in your perfect teeth.