The Enemy of Good

    I’m writing on my iPhone on the most inspirational seat in our house: the (closed lid) master bath toilet, soothed by the rhythmic serenade of my trusty breast pump. Since my failed comeback in January, I’ve let Perfect become the enemy of Good. No time to edit and fine-tune publishable posts in between diapers, scooter rides, and teleworking, so I simply haven’t written anything at all–even I can admit that birthday cards, thank you notes, and to-do lists don’t count (long-winded agenda at the conclusion of this post notwithstanding).

    I know others can relate. We can’t carve out 30 minutes for a real conversation, so we don’t pick up the phone. What starts as a single flowerbed intimidatingly besieged by wood sorrel becomes, over a summer, the Jungles of Borneo. A spare hour to sweat at the gym is realistically impossible–so we eat sleeves of vanilla Joe-Joe’s on the couch and search the Facebook Law Mamas group for “best bra not Victoria Secret actually fits”. WHAT I’M THE ONLY PERSON GO AWAY.

    So, here’s to short posts about nothing at all in my attempt to embrace Good and tell Perfect to eat me. I’ve even thrown in a photo of the Jungles of Borneo (in Reston, Virginia) to hold myself accountable for my other outstanding obligations. It feels nice to flex my fingers now and then and write for another set of eyes or two, lest I continue to subject Kenny to the following refrigerator dry erase board to-do list in the name of “writing”:

    1) Hang blackout curtains Suspend diurnal textiles

    2) Mail Dad’s birthday gift Dispatch offering for paternal celebration of nascency

    3) Weed yard Render perimetral parasitic flora asunder

    He thanks you all in advance.

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