I guess this is stupid, and it’s not like it’s a BIG deal, but I just… I need to get this out somewhere that isn’t my husband’s perpetually patient face, you know? Like, I write these blogs, right? About gentle parenting. About patience, about finding the joy in the chaos, about deep breaths and understanding that little people have big feelings and we, as parents, need to be their unwavering rock. And people *love* them. I get comments, sometimes a hundred a day, from other moms saying how much my words help them, how I make them feel seen, how I’ve changed their whole approach to motherhood. And I live in this tiny town, everyone knows *everyone*, so it’s not just internet strangers, it’s Susan from the bakery who asks about my latest post, it’s Mrs. Henderson from church who tells me my advice on tantrums saved her sanity. And I smile, and I nod, and I give them this whole performance of serene motherhood, like I just floated out of a perfectly organized, Montessori-inspired home. It’s hilarious, really. Absolutely hysterical. Because honestly, I spend half my day wanting to scream. Not just yell, I mean *scream* into a pillow until my throat hurts. My house is a disaster. There are always crumbs. ALWAYS. How can three small humans generate so many crumbs? And laundry? Don’t even get me started on the laundry. I wrote a whole post last month about letting go of perfection and embracing the “beautiful mess” of family life. Meanwhile, I was staring at a mountain of clothes that hadn’t been folded in three days, trying not to hyperventilate. The other day, my middle one, bless his tiny destructive heart, drew on the WALL with permanent marker — a beautiful mural of what looked like a dying spider, right next to the hand-stitched “Live, Laugh, Love” sign my aunt made me. And I just stood there, I swear I could feel my eye twitching, trying to remember all my own advice. *Deep breaths, honey. He’s expressing himself. Art is subjective.* And what I actually wanted to do was take that marker and draw a giant X over his face. Not really, obviously. But… a little bit, maybe. And then I look at my phone, at the comments, at the messages from these women telling me I’m their parenting guru, and I just… want to smash it. Because I’m not. I’m a fraud. I’m a short-tempered, overwhelmed mess who just happens to be good at stringing words together in a way that makes me sound like I have it all figured out. I lose my temper. Not in a dangerous way, but in a way that makes me feel like the absolute opposite of everything I preach. Yesterday, I yelled because one of them spilled milk – just milk! – and then I felt guilty for an hour, which just made me even angrier, at myself, at the milk, at the general unfairness of existence. I just don't know how much longer I can keep up this act. It’s exhausting. And the thought of someone finding out… in a town this small? Forget it. I’d have to move. Probably to a different country. God, I need a drink.