Today, I didn’t fuck up.
All I’ve ever wanted in life is to be exactly perfect at everything I do. This, to me, is the exact average goal that everyone should have, and failing at this goal means life is hardly worth living. I have a couple friends who are more failure-adverse than me; I wonder constantly how they do it, and sometimes think “they should relax”! I never think that about me; I AM relaxed, other people are comatose or something.
Generally, parenting has represented a new way to fail at every expectation and goal; there is never enough of me to fulfill my kids’ needs, my partner’s needs, my family and friends needs, my employment’s needs. My needs aren’t even in the room where needs happen
But today…today I fucked up nothing. I wasn’t a jerk to my partner. I saw my kids eyes light up at me more than once, and I never got snippy or dimmed the joy or clipped the wings. I ate more than once, sometimes healthy, some just yummy, and never to excess. I started reading a novel just for pleasure. I enjoyed my wonderful and supportive family. I felt reasonable sadness at missing a desired event, but was content with my reasons and did not berate myself. There is a long night to go, but at 7:45 pm both my kids are asleep, the dog is curled in, the cat is purring, and everything is, right now, this minute, OK.