Sunday was International Women’s Day. And though it’s probably marked on fewer calendars than, say, National Ice Cream Day (July 19), social media most certainly noticed and celebrated.
I saw posts all over Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. Most were very thoughtful and beautiful. Others simply pointed out that every day should be International Women’s Day (right on!).
All the self love of our kind (or at least the ladies of this blog, my apologies to men who read it!), got me thinking quite a bit about a total myth of womanhood:
Having it all.
The modern woman wants to have it all. We want to have successful careers, families, love lives. We want to have everyone we’ve ever met like our posts on Facebook and Instagram, retweet our pithy words on Twitter, and comment on our blogs (well, hello there, readers…hint, hint).
And the thing about the modern woman is that it is quite easy to make it *appear* as if we have it all.
There’s the unique ability to constantly edit yourself.
To post only the selfies that make your skin look clear and your hair radiant.
To only mention the fabulous things your kids do and not how they have a horrible habit of picking their noses (and then eating it).
To make your husband out to be AH-MAZ-ING—the guy who is always bringing you chocolate (not that you can tell in your gorgeous, slimming selfies), sending flowers, washing your car.
And you may think you have it all. That you can do it all. And that you can get enough sleep on top of having and doing it ALL.
But here’s the truth: We don’t have it all.
No one does.
Not even Beyonce or Kim Kardashian (though their social media presence indicates otherwise). Not even you.
And that is OK.
It’s OK and perfect and real and true and NORMAL.
I know that if you follow me on Twitter, I probably seem like a green juice eating, baby wearing, look-at-me-I’m-writing-after-running-10-miles robot.
Those are the highlights. What you didn’t see was me freaking out over an edit deadline while trying to kill sugar ants laying siege to my counter and answer my six-year-old for the MILLIONTH time about if he’s earned an after-dinner cartoon. And no, I didn’t make dinner. I ordered out because my baby is teething, my husband doesn’t want yet another day of leftover enchiladas, and I need ALL THE CARBS.
I am woman. Hear me roar.
And then freeze time so I can finish this freelance, please.