If there is one thing that my physical rehab taught me, it is that I can let go.
Not should let go.
Can.
Life ain't perfect.
The husband is still smack-bang in his existential crisis (i.e. not perfect).
Our boys are still weird and strangely round pegs in square holes (not perfect), subjected to our imperfect parenting and provision.
The house is crumbling on the one side with a tree growing from the gutter.
The bathroom is well past its sell-by date.
The utterly imperfect cleaner with her soap opera-life imperfected our already imperfect kitchen floor
(one thing I have been unable to let go).
My sleep, body, motivation, pain levels, work attitude, perpetual hope and kindness also suffer.
But it's okidoki, you know.
We are born and we die and inbetween events engulf us over which we have zero control.
We make the best of it.
My perfectly alcohol-free January turned out to be slightly imperfect too.
And I'm okay with that.
.
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