On the Surface

My life is not what it appears to be. Scrolling through pictures or feeds, it looks like I really do have my shit together. And I don’t like that. Because I don’t. It just looks that way.
Facebook and instagram need to come with this warning: 

CAUTION, images that appear online are NOT representative of real life. 

Most of my pictures look something like this…..


Not like this (which is what I would normally post).


Does anyone watch American Housewife? There was an episode where the eldest daughter hung her C+ paper on the fridge because she felt it was the best she could do. 

I don’t hang my C+ papers on the fridge. And there are logical reasons why. First off, who wants to look crappy in a photo that could very possibly end up coming back to bite you in the butt in the future? That seventh tequila shot at the bar? Yeah, lets put that picture where a future employer can see it. I don’t wear makeup and often my hair is usually pretty messy because I don’t take the time to do more than ponytail it. And I have a lot of chins (thanks Nana…and junk food). So when a selfie with the girls has me looking pretty decent, you bet I want to post it. I don’t delete all the bad ones, I just don’t publish them online. 

I also try not to vent online. I’m pretty opinionated. I have strong political views and other strong beliefs but my soapbox is not on Facebook. Yes, I do share others’ posts that strike a chord with me but I don’t generally write my own. I don’t like to stir the pot. Not posting doesn’t mean I don’t care. I just try to stay neutral in forums with people I don’t know well. 

Facebook is like a book jacket. It’s shiny and new and smells fresh and looks neatly pressed. But it isn’t the whole book. It’s just the appetizer. It’s designed to catch your attention by showing you the best parts of a book. 

So don’t think my Facebook or instagram is my whole life. It really isn’t. It’s just the shiny parts; the things that I am proud of, a great picture of the girls, or a check-in during a rare date with my husband. It’s not E throwing up down the front of my shirt on the way to the bathtub last night. I’s not EE walking around coughing, snot running down her noise, and her hand so far in her mouth that she is gagging herself. And it’s not A screaming bloody murder at 2:00am for no reason. It’s not me, on the verge of tears with a horrific headache as three kids scream and cry after their nap until I give in and put on Frozen. 

Facebook is just my pretty dust jacket.  

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