Being a perfectionist makes you flawed, not perfect.

Tiny footsteps are usually the start to my day.

Before I know it, 3 beautiful little girls are begging for breakfast.  

Unfortunately, you can’t press snooze on a human alarm clock.

My day of hurry has begun.

Instead of being met with warm and cozy cuddles, my girls are met with demands.  Finish up and eat.  We need to get moving.  We have to hurry.  We can't be late.  Get your pajamas on.  Hurry up.  Time for bed.  We need to get up early tomorrow.  We need.  We must.  We have to.

Demands that are really a blanket for my insecurities about being a good mom.  

I check my email, world news, Twitter and Facebook, and my calendar, and my to-do list, and, and, and.  I plan my day, I plan their day, and I would likely plan everyone else's day if they let me.

I mistakenly assume that these things are more pressing than the three sweet souls sitting at my table.  

When did “Type A” become a compliment one gives oneself?  (guilty)

When did we begin to base our worth on how “busy” or “tired” we are?  (guilty)

When did we find it more fruitful to manage our days than to live them?  (guilty)

I'm giving myself permission to snuggle with my girls at bedtime.  I'm giving myself permission to say "no" so that I can say "yes" to my family.  I'm giving myself permission to laugh when London raids the pantry and devours 5 cinnamon rolls, rather than jump to clean it up in 5 seconds or less.  (Who's counting anyway?)  I'm giving myself permission to laugh more and worry less.

Unplug.  Live life slowly.  See if the world keeps spinning.  It will.  Without my help.  Without my control.  Without my to-do list.  Without my hurry.  Without my bossy-pants self.