Here's to real homes

I have a confession to make: I hate my carpet. There, I said it. When we moved into our house back in 2011, the carpet was new. White. It's not anymore. This is a house full of boys. Boys that play hard and spill chocolate milk and spit up (I'll let you figure out which one does what). I try to clean up messes instantly, but that doesn't always happen. I don't always notice a stain until it's set in.

We had a birthday party for our oldest this weekend. So many of our closest friends came. It was a lovely time celebrating our boy. We cleaned and scrubbed all week leading up to the party, and actually, we got things looking pretty nice. But all I could think about was the stupid carpet. 
I felt like people might think I am a bad wife or mom because I couldn't keep our white carpet white. For letting something brand new get old and dingy in a matter of a few years. My constant self-condemnation ruined what could have been a really joyous occasion. Instead of relaxing and enjoying loved ones that drove all that way to celebrate, I berated myself for the stupid floors. 

Enough. I'm tired of trying to pretend like I have it all together. It's exhausting and I am not fooling anyone. So here it is: Our family should never, EVER have white carpet. Ever. I hardly ever paint my nails, and when I do, they chip right away. I eat entirely too much sugar. I say I'm gluten free but only when there isn't gluten around. I am not the best cook. My husband and I don't kiss every day, and although we love each other deeply, we get on each other's nerves a lot. I like fast food. He would spend all his money on fish if he could. We are really tight with money and worry about it constantly. He thinks the Duck Dynasty wives are hot. I think long beards are super gross. There, I think that's it. 

My point is, my word this year is PEACE. But I am not living it. Peace doesn't mean perfect. It doesn't mean a perfect house or a perfect body or really anything other than giving our shortcomings to God. Our peace should only come from him. I know deep down that my friends don't really care what my floors look like. I know that I would NEVER judge another mom by the state of her carpet. But I do it to myself. Enough. No more. 

I'm going to start exercising grace. I try not to judge others, but I've been judging the heck out of myself. And for that, I am sorry. It's a disservice to my husband, my kids, my friends, and myself.

Here's to real homes. Homes with character

and some flaws and lots of life within them. Here's to moms that aren't perfect. That love their children unconditionally and are okay with messes and real life. Here's to grace.