A friend pointed me to a very clever, crafty-mom blog the other day.
I've found a few of these blogs from women who sculpt, sew, cook gourmet meals, write novels, do clever things with their kids, plus bring in the bacon, too.
I got to thinking - is this a joke for gullible folks like myself?
I am seriously slack-jawed at these women who manage to do it all.
For I already attain to a world
where myself and my (ten) children in snowy white frocks (which I've made) live in a Jane Austen setting,
where we all frolic in delighted states of repose -
running, sitting and laughing happily in front of our small and slightly rundown manor house (near-castle),
wherein the children rarely cry, and if so, it lasts but a minute before their mama circumvents disaster,
all the while sketching and painting Mary Cassatt-quality works of the little darlings
(who never vomit or poop).
I teach them to sing in the style of Maria from The Sound of Music,
and spend spare hours scribbling away on manuscripts like Jo in Little Women, all the while looking surprisingly shapely for one who has borne ten children.
Let us not forget my dabbles in the illuminated works of the Bible, my triathlon training,
my regular visits to the sick and poor with baskets of homemade/hand-picked apple berry plumcot whole-grain antioxidant-laden muffins and pies and breads and hand-plucked roast hens.
And of course I try to live perfectly, patiently, lovingly. At all times.
The fantasy comes crashing down when profanity slips from my mouth after hearing my daughter confess she's peed in the restaurant high chair. To add to the joy, my other daughter has dumped the basket of tortilla chips on her head.
And that's only one small moment
of many such failures in my real world
that never quite lives up to the other one.
Jane Austen, watching me from afar, just fainted.
Someone is reviving her with smelling salts and escorting her to a chair.