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Challenge: It's Good To Be Bad

'You people are wearing me out': A letter to the perfect moms

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Dear Perfect Moms,

You people are wearing me out.

Those perfect photographs – mouths open in laughter, smartly coifed children, all of you a picture of happiness, seemingly impervious to being hot as Hell amongst those glorious sand dunes.

You're not fooling anyone, we know there was tyrannical complaining, crying and pleas for help because starched clothes and sand are an itchy combination.

You can't fool the sisterhood you've abandoned.


It's not just the pretend magazine shoots in the summer and around the holidays. No, you bombard us with soliloquies of an idyllic life. We should keep scrolling, but we are gluttons and can't help ourselves. Yep, we screenshot that mess and share with our favorite sloppy friends.

Traveling, muffin making, cheery grocery shopping, children accomplishing chores, boot camp jubilance – wonderful times nary a blip of discontentment. Not one mealy apple at your shiny house.

The jig is up and I cry foul.

You are a formidable group, and I come in peace. Will you just let down your guard? We are all being sucked dry by tiny humans, and yet you persevere like amazing actors starring in the Sound of Music. And why?


There are no rewards, no medals, no cash prizes, not even a certificate with your name in calligraphy. Nothing, not one iota of praise unless you count a kind word on your tombstone.

The rest of us are dropping like flies – second guessing, nail biting disasters as we try to keep up and fail miserably. No matter how good one is at feigning perfection, the tides of real life find us all and you don't want to be left alone to pick up those fake pieces.

Life ain’t easy. Real life means illness, maybe a baby you didn’t order or maybe there’s a baby who never did arrive. Perhaps you have parents who need you far too soon or a husband that decided marriage wasn't his cup of tea or a job you loved that no longer loves you.

We want you on the team of imperfection. No pay, the hours suck and you’re required to share your heart and wear it on your meager sleeve. Joy will be your reward and life, and the imperfect messy one will seem more perfect than you knew possible. Real trumps perfect every time.

Love, The Real Moms

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