To Judge and Be Judged

I just read a “mommy blog” that made me feel both judged and judgmental simultaneously.

For the sake of being a reasonably nice person, I won’t link you to said blog. I don’t believe in dissing someone quite so directly. (If I were a really nice person, I wouldn’t diss at all. Oops.) But if I’m being honest with myself, my disses are solely doled out because I’m terribly envious of:

  • How freaking beautiful her blog layout is
  • How freaking awesome this lady’s life sounds
  • How freaking great of a writer she is
  • The fact that she clearly has her poop in group when it comes to adulthood

In the blog, this, quite honestly, wonderful lady (she really is) talks about how it’s a daily challenge to care for her toddler and keep her miniscule Manhattan apartment clean. She’s a stay-at-home-mom (again, envy) who moved to the city for her husband’s work (sounds familiar). In one of her posts, she writes about how she had to adjust to this new apartment, and New York is so busy, and her apartment is always a wreck, etc. etc. Then she posts a photo of her living room and kitchen. They are immaculate. They are adorable. They are color-coordinated and beautifully decorated. Yes, the apartment is small, but it’s tasteful and perfect and lovely. What do you mean, you’re struggling to keep it clean, woman?!

This is my judgmental side. I’m judging her because if she thinks that’s dirty, she must have really high expectations. She must be pretty high-maintenance. How horrible it must be to live with someone who thinks immaculate is actually filthy?

And then, I looked around my own apartment. To my right, a jewelry box project (photos forthcoming) I’ve been working on for at least two weeks sits on butcher paper on the floor. Straight ahead, four stacks of books have been pulled off the bookshelf and onto the floor to accommodate the addition of bookshelf doors (yet another DIY project; photos also forthcoming). To my left, the aforementioned bookshelf doors have been primed and painted and are left leaning against the wall. In the entryway, I see the remnants of my trip to visit my mom. No, my suitcase isn’t fully unpacked. Yes, there are books and shoes in a pile. Sorry, I’m not sorry.

What would this lady say about my home? She’d probably think it needed to be burned to the ground and started over. And then, I think to myself, “How dare she think that!”

And I have to remind myself that I’m making things up in my head now, and that is a ridiculous thing to do because I’m usually very wrong about such things because I’m not a mind-reader because there is no such thing.

But seriously, any time she needs to vent about cleanliness, she can come right on over. My broom and dustpan will be waiting.

[On an unrelated note, here’s an update on The Mister’s and my weight-loss goals. In one month, The Mister lost 11 pounds, and I lost 6. So far, so good!]

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