My fingernails are never clean.
My boobs are too big.
I am boringly practical and I worry too much.
I tuck the flap of my belly into my jeans and try to ignore it.
I have no waist, no bum and shoulders broader than most men.
Sometimes I can only see my flaws. I only think about all the things I don’t do so well, all things I’d like to change, all the things I wish I wasn’t.
I forget to see all the things that are ok. I don’t stop to ponder the things I do well, the things I am proud of and the things that are beautiful.
This is not the self esteem I want my children to inherit. This is not even the attitude I want to have towards myself.
There is more to me than my superficial imperfections.
For every flaw there is a story, a journey, a proud moment, something to love…
My fingernails have dirt under them from the garden and green play dough from playing with my big boy. They are signs of hard work and enjoyment.
My breasts have feed four children, two of them at the same time. Despite flat nipples, prem babies, failure to thrive, bad latches and bouts of thrush they have nourished my babies and I am proud.
I am responsible, reliable and I think things through (over and over and over).
Despite my belly flap I am more comfortable with my body now than I have ever been.
I have skinny legs, long fingers and nice ears.
I am a mother, a friend, a teacher, a daughter, a Turkish delight eater, a sister, a chef, a wife, a blogger, a karaoke singer, a woman.
I am all this and more…
I am not perfect at any of these things, but I am me, perfectly imperfect me, and that’s just fine.
Are you perfectly Imperfect?
Share your stories so we all know that we are not alone in our imperfect perfectness.