Recently there has been a lot of discussion in the press about the pressure that women feel to be perfect (Gosh there’s a revelation) and at the time when I read it I didn’t attribute these fears to myself. After all, right now when I look around I see the Sunday papers that we still haven’t finished reading, my toast crusts from this morning on the plate beside me, a pile of post to sort through, the bambino’s breakfast stuff to wash up, the laundry to put away, the washing I need to put in the washing machine, packing for our trip in a couple of days, and numerous boxes of stuff that still need to be sorted through and unpacked due to our recent house renovations. AND I’m typing this in my pyjamas and it’s after midday…

This is hardly the home of a domestic goddess, more like a domestic catastrophe… I don’t think that I want to be perfect (If I do I’m seriously failing at it) but I recall some days recently where I felt like I could jump on a table and scream my head off like a banshee out of frustration at my never-ending to do list, and I wonder if instead of trying to be perfect, am I trying to be superwoman and cram everything in?

Read the original post in full over at Dollymix