Perfection is an illusion.

And I have the crumpled card to prove it.

This Mother's Day weekend gave me everything.

A solo walk through my neighborhood Saturday morning — no music for half of it, just birds and my own thoughts and a girlfriend I ran into mid-street and stood talking to for twenty minutes like we had all the time in the world. I came home creatively full in a way I hadn't felt in a while. I wrote in my journal. Old school, pen to paper. Pulled some tarot cards on the front porch. Just... breathed.

Sunday I woke up to the sound of pitter-pattering downstairs and my son sliding into bed next to me — very obviously running interference. "Just stay here, Mom."

Twist my arm, O! Nothing I love more than a Sunday morning snuggle.

Jim and Vivian were making breakfast.
I could hear it.

And then I heard her fall apart.

Turns out Vivian had been working all morning on a card for me — a drawing she'd started at school, coloring it in, making it just right. And the crayon broke. Ninety-five percent done, and the crayon broke. She crumpled the whole thing into a ball. Didn't want to come upstairs. Didn't want to see me. Just... done.

Jim came up with a full Mother’s Day breakfast tray, apologizing. He was disappointed that she couldn’t rebound. She needed to come say happy Mother's Day. She needed to pull it together.

And I just thought — no. She doesn't.

I know that feeling. I remember being a little girl, building something up in my mind, trying so hard to make it perfect, and then one small thing goes sideways and the whole thing feels ruined. That frustration is so real. It's not dramatic. It's just... human.

And, you know what, I still get this way. Almost every Christmas Eve (or 30 minutes before we’re hosting a house full of people!!) I get realllly b*tchy. I’m snippy with Jim. I stress about things not being “just right”, wanting to make magic for the kids, to have it look a certain way. He knows the drill and is so patient and kind. I always end up apologizing.

And then poof, the magic happens. The guests leave. The Christmas decorations go back in the attic. And then I have the blues.

So, my sweet Vivikins, I’ve been there. And I know the heart and soul you put into making my morning special. Thank you, angel.

Before she could find it or throw it away, I went downstairs and uncrumpled that card. And I put it up in my room.

Because here's the thing about perfection: it's an illusion. And the crumpled card — the one colored with so much love it literally broke the crayon — is the real gift.

We ended up having a beautiful day. Yoga with some moms at a brand new park in Oak Cliff. Time with my kids. Drinks with girlfriends in the afternoon — where I found out one of my besties is pregnant. On Mother's Day. I mean, come on.

But I keep coming back to that card.

Motherhood isn't the highlight reel. It's the crumpled paper. It's the kid who tried so hard she gave up — and the mom who knows exactly how that feels.

That's the whole thing, really.

Happy (belated) Mother's Day to every mom holding a crumpled card, a full heart, or a heavy one. I see you. 💛