When I grow up, I will be the kind of mom who has everything you never even thought you needed in her bag. I will have Kleenex, wipes, alcohol, bandages.
I will walk through my office with poise and elegance, carrying an It bag and wearing shoes with red soles.
When I grow up, I will not say tactless things that make the back of my neck grow hot and my forehead to hatch beads of sweat.
When I grow up, I will be disciplined with my yoga practice and not spend useless hours lounging around in pajamas.
I will live in a house as curated as the pins I painstakingly collected on Pinterest—with pillows arranged just so, paintings curated and hanging perfectly on a wall, sensuality wafting in the air from a Dyptique candle, my daughter’s toys organized in an Instagram-worthy #shelfie.
I grew up and didn’t become any of that. I’m still a sweaty mess when I walk through the streets. My bag is full of stuff but not the things that my daughter needs. I still say things where I wish I had a delete button for my life (swipe left please). I want to spend my days knitting in my pajamas rather than my cute yoga outfits, doing yoga. My house has plastic toys scattered all over and sometimes there is the smell of dog.
Instead, now that I’m grown up, I accept my flawed, imperfect, didn’t-live-up-to-expectations self. These traits are my quirks that make me who I am. I see that I am enough—good enough, smart enough, funny enough, kind enough, hard working enough, spiritual enough.
I have grown up. And I love myself more and more each day.
