I try really hard.  I mean, really too hard on a fairly general basis.  I try so hard I back-seat myself, my needs. my agenda, and myself.  It’s a current state of being, and one that I am working on:  trying to find the balance between the family and me.

I try too hard at the wrong moments:   attempting a gourmet dinner on a Tuesday night to express my love for my family and their dedication, hard work, and incredible abilities.  I try too hard when he is stuck at work, at an incredible event in New West with the Fire Chief and a housing complex.  I forego my run in order to do after-school-homework-chores-karate drop off-dinner prep-karate pickup-serve dinner.  I should just give in and cheat and make a simple meal.  Something that is nourishing, requires little effort, and is easy for me.

(Except it isn’t easy with the Celiac factor:  most takeaway is dead to us, and that which still lives demands the GDP of a small nation in payment)

So I over-produce.  I over-compensate.  I decide to make a scratch-made gf schnitzel/spaetzle/veggies and salad dinner on  a Tuesday.  I can do this.

(What the fuck was I thinking?)

There’s nothing like an epic failure of a miserable mess of a dinner in front of you, with all, all of your family looking at you with sympathy and love and telling you “It’s OKAY Mom, this is delicious, and you’re amazing” and they are eating it anyways.  It is the reassurance of the buoyancy of their love for you that reminds you that you don’t have to be the super-hero, that you already are a super hero in their eyes and they love you no matter what anyways.

It’s the reminders of the love in the #mommyfails that are the best.  Thank you, family.