We’ve been chasing the American dream.
Oh you know, the perfect little home, in the perfect little neighborhood, where the perfect little family of four resides.
Perfect is a lie.
There is far more truth, beauty and richness in imperfection. It is in that space between the egotistical pursuit of perfection and the realization that there is no such thing that we grow as people.
I remind myself of this as we prepare to put in an offer on a quirky home in an even quirkier neighborhood.
It’s smaller than we thought we’d want.
There’s weird carpeting and 50s era wood paneling.
The kitchen hasn’t been updated since 1956.
The basement shower is inexplicably in the laundry room while the sink and toilet are in a whole other room.
We like the home anyway.
Now there’s no guarantee that we’ll get it–after all this summer’s been a seller’s market in DC. But the fact that we’re willing to love something so imperfect speaks volumes about the connection we can feel once we stop chasing perfection.
Last night, my toddler hopped out of the tub during her bath and streaked naked through the house.
At first, I was highly annoyed. I’d had a rough day at work, was facing a late night, and needed to get up early the next morning. I was exhausted. She was messing up my perfect bedtime routine not to mention dripping water on the hardwood floors.
I chased her.
And as I followed her through the rooms, her giggles, her sense of abandon, her sheer joy was just infectious.
So I gave myself over to the chase.
As I did so, the day’s stress melted away. I felt as free and happy as a child.
Marveling in the glory of imperfection.