Dear Pinterest,
You with your oh so cute little red icon.
You with your oh so clever how-to & DIY posts.
You with your oh so charming photographs of perfect lives and speck free homes.
It all started so innocently. Cousin Stacey expounding about all the loveliness found on your site. Friends promising it was just like cutting clippings from a decorating magazine but this way I could organize it all with just the click of a button.
But you know what Pinterest, we seem to have VAST differences in our filtering ideas, on the ‘ease it takes to create something’ and on what real beauty is.
For one, my brain filters things much different than yours Pinterest.
I doubt I’ll ever pick up a magazine with the feature article “How To Know If You’re A Toxic Parent.”
But it’s there on Pinterest every.single.time.
And my self discernment isn’t fail proof because I eventually click on the link.
Who knew that if you’ve ever looked at your children in a “I CANNOT BELIEVE You Just Did That” look, then – clearly, you are one horrible parent and your children are doomed to certain toxicity.
Or what about “Mom Teaches Daughter Valuable Life Lesson with a Tube of Toothpaste”…Can we just give it up for this lady…she clearly has far greater Parenting power than I do.
I’m not sure how katrillions of generations of mama’s ever made it before you Pinterest.
How in the world did they know how to parent?
Mamas today are bombarded with articles such as…
Teach Your Child to Respectfully Disagree
What Not to Do During A Temper Tantrum
How Much Stuff Do Kids Really Need
SERIOUS??? What about instead…
Just Do The Best You Can Do and Survive this thing called parenting
and clearly here in the developed world we need an attitude and materialism adjustment check.
When I was a kid, dirt + books + soccer ball = satisfied childhood. If you’re worried your children have too much stuff, then the answer is yes, they probably do. And there are some kids in your very own town who could use the excess toys your kids never play with.
{As a caveat, I’m all about parenting advice, but really, I want it from the people I live ‘real day to day’ life with. People that I actually know, trust, and most important…the people who know the real me. Your bombardments of “parenting to-do’s that I am failing” leaves me with feelings of ‘less than’, ‘never going to get it together,’ and I want to curl up in a ball and throw in the towel.}
You & I also have a VAST difference in our understanding of the words “This crafty Christmas & Mother’s Day Gift is SOOOO easy to create”.
Yeah, I’m talking about you, Transfer Grandma’s Heirloom Banana Bread Recipe to a Tea Towel. After running around town attempting to find an old school copier that prints with ‘just the right ink’, countless hours spent scrubbing ink and dousing my house in citrus fumes, I am left with faint black scribbles on a tea towel now stained dismal brown.
Even the ornaments I try to make for Christmas are failures. Crayons don’t melt inside a glass ornament when you focus the hair dryer on them.
Half made, half sewn, fully broken, fully laughable presents abound under my Christmas tree and my family members are now experts at faking an “I love it” expression.
The worst part is, I get sucked in every time I open up your site, Pinterest. Even this morning, as I’m writing these words, I couldn’t help but be drawn in by “20 Christmas Ornaments Kids Can Make Themselves”.
It sounds so promising, but the reality is….those beautiful ornaments in the photos were probably not made by kids. They were probably made by people who have master’s degrees in using hot glue guns, people who really do have organized closets, and people who can actually make vegan fro-yo desserts taste good.
And if one more person pins Black Bean Brownies Taste Just Like The Real Thing, I may throw up.
They don’t taste like normal brownies. Serious, don’t waste your time or money on those recipes.
And my husband, he most definitely wishes for this divorce to happen post haste. I’m pretty sure husbands across the globe would gladly unite to never again hear the words”I saw it on Pinterest and it’s so easy. I’m sure you could do it this weekend.”
The best one liner my husband has ever said, hands down, was…
“Just because it’s on Pinterest, doesn’t mean it’s to code.”
That was after an epic fail.
I mean epic burn down the house proportions.
I hotglued nautical rope to the kitchen fan light globes. It was on pinterest, afterall. What could possibly go wrong?
My husband telling me it was a fire hazard couldn’t be accurate I thought. He got the last laugh when the rope literally started falling off the light globe as the glue melted from the heat and a burnt smell took over the kitchen. I found out later that if only I had used LED lightbulbs this wouldn’t have been a problem. But to save my husband a heart attack, I decided who needs light globes in the first place?
Pinterest, your website is NOT REAL LIFE.
Real life is not meant to be or look perfect.
Real life is messy, it’s chaotic, it’s broken.
Perfection is a facade, the masking of our real souls.
Imperfection is being okay with our human frailty and letting others in to see that we’re really all the same. None of us have it all together. All of us use a party as an excuse to finally get that photo wall hung or dust the cobwebs off the ceiling.
True beauty is found in doing the best we can and accepting it’s okay to be imperfect.
Loveliness is found when our realness is exposed and our mess shines through.
Memories are made of the broken, ragged edges of our lives.
My Grandma Buckner’s floors, you know what they were made of Pinterest?
Green, yellow, and brown linoleum tiles, that in no way matched one another in size, shape, or design; all patched together, very randomly.
They were what she could afford (her & Aunt Budge probably found them for free, knowing their thriftiness) and while those floors were nothing fancy nor elaborate, they are recessed into the memories of my childhood. Those ugly beautiful floors welcomed children’s dirty feet, dogs named Sadie, and held up hundreds of National Geographic magazines discarded haphazardly under a vinyl orange sofa.
I can’t keep up with you Pinterest.
Consider this your official “we’re separated notice”.
But before I serve you those final divorce papers, I need to write down that recipe for those “to-die-for” gluten free chocolate chip cookies and photograph the “how-to-make” a perfect gallery artwork wall. After all, I’m only human.
