This is my first post of 2014! I had so many big plans for posts: Christmas Tips for Lazy Parents, How to Alienate Family and Friends in Ten Easy Steps, 2003-2013 The Years in Review, My New-Years UnResolutions, etc.

I think I’ve lost my blogging mojo. It’s hard to work up the enthusiasm to write long, well-written tomes with good photographs that get about three page views (Hi Dave!) when I can toss up a pithy one-liner on Facebook and get 37 likes.

But, oh blogging, I can’t quit you. You are my first love. I started blogging before I was on Twitter, before I was on Facebook. And blogging is mine. My posts belong to me, not Mark Zuckerberg (I’ll bet you didn’t know this, but all of your Facebook posts are the intellectual property of Facebook).

And while I enjoy the pithy one-liners, and while I can work a classroom like nobody’s business, blogging is the real window into my soul. A glimpse into my heart and my sick and twisted and confused little mind. I tend to think I’m blogging into the abyss, and then someone I barely know comes up to me and grabs my arm and says, “Thank you for that last post.”

We live in an age that is polished as hell. I was feeling pretty damn proud of the simple little birthday cake I made for Oscar’s 5th birthday when another woman who I follow on Facebook posted a picture of the Pinterest-worthy, flawless, marzipan-covered cake she had made for her daughter’s birthday. I admit it, I seethed with jealousy and rage. Then Oscar said, “This is the Best. Cake. Ever!” and I thought, if it’s good enough for Oscar, it’s good enough for me.

The key to making a five-year-old happy is sprinkles. Lots and lots of sprinkles.

People post pictures of their lattes, their shoes, their sushi, their 3-year-olds who play the piano and recite French poetry, their cats, their clean kitchens, and their delightfully retro and ironic baby nurseries. I know I’ve whined about this before, but my babies never had nurseries, damn it. And I own like two pairs of shoes that you will  never see pictures of.

So I’ve decided that I have to keep this blog alive for one and only one purpose: to give you a glimpse into the life of someone who does not live a perfect and polished life. I eat whatever the hell I want, read the most random assortment of crap, and spend ungodly amounts of time on the internet. I try to be a good mom and a good teacher and sometimes a good writer but mostly I fail miserably (please don’t tell me in the comments that I am good at any of these things. I’m not fishing for compliments. Really. I DO NOT WANT COMPLIMENTS). Cuz see? It’s okay to fail. I kind of like that about myself. I like that when I was complaining about being tired and disorganized one of my students said, “You are the only professor I have who acts like a real person.” I like the idea of becoming the poster child for the unpolished, the uncool, the frantic and the hopeless.

Reader, we can be friends because I’m never a threat. Your outfits will always be cuter than mine. Your parties will always be more fun. Your glasses more hip. Your coffee more expensive. Your house will always be bigger and cleaner and more ironically decorated. Your Instagram more instagramy. That’s okay. I like that about our relationship. I like that I can be a candle in the window for the secret and hidden imperfect ones among us.

One of my favorite concepts is wabi-sabi, which is a Japanese phrase that means nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect. It’s supposed to evoke a sense of serene melancholy. That is my job. I will try to do it imperfectly and not very well.

And now a picture of my daughter with her dolls and a random plastic bug.

Just because.