I know this because there’s a dog on my bed, and dogs invariably have fleas. Always. Without fail. I don’t care how expensive the prescription flea-killing meds are, there’s always at least two fleas on every dog, and since there’s a dog on my bed, there’s fleas on my bed. Which is gross and makes me feel like a filthy and disgusting person.
I’m telling you this to practice vulnerability. There’s this book I’m reading — actually, there’s about a dozen books I’m reading at the moment — and I forget what this particular one is called, but it’s by a lady named (I think) Brene Brown, and she says in order to live a “wholehearted” life, you have to be vulnerable. You have to own your story and share it, no matter what, especially the parts you’re squeamish about sharing. If you don’t, you won’t be living wholeheartedly.
I am not absolutely clear on precisely what living wholeheartedly means, even though I am reading the book and trying my best to absorb it, but when you have a brain as fragmented as mine feels right now and you’re in the middle of like a dozen books at once, and you’re homeschooling seven glue-sniffing howler monkeys, er, kids, and trying to keep up with all the laundry said howler monkeys produce, and feed them as well, and even try to work on having a decent speaking relationship with that guy who sleeps in my bed every night and keeps asking me where his paycheck has gone… let’s say, some things just end up falling thru the cracks. But I am convinced that living a wholehearted life is a very good thing, and I am determined to do it. Thus, I tell the Interwebs about the fleas.
And speaking of cracks, there’s cracks in the walls and ceiling of my house. I’m being vulnerable here, people. Seriously. There’s hairline cracks in some of the corners and extending from the tops of various door jambs. We live in a house with a block-and-beam foundation, and that’s just the way these houses are (I’m told) but growing up, we always had concrete slab foundations and no cracks! Never! Our walls were crack-less. So every time I see a crack on our wall, I feel like my house is about to fall down around my ears. I’m just very uncomfortable with it. It also makes me feel like we live in a dump (not actually true) which must mean I’ve failed at life (also not actually true).
Again, I’m being vulnerable here.
So, what’s my point? My point is, in spite of the feels, everything is ok; my house isn’t falling down and we don’t have a bug infestation; and it’s good to be human and admit that I’m not perfect. Even on a blog that I have no guarantee anyone ever reads.
Hey, Internet! I’m human and imperfect and vulnerable, I’m sharing my stories with you, and life is great!