Bless me, for I have sinned

OK. I can't take it anymore. I have to get this off my chest. I'm ready for all of the judgements from you, God, and the fabulous women strolling in the upper 70's and 80's of Manhattan. I am opening myself up to the ridicule of the Whole Foods hopping, baby food making, cloth diaper washing do-gooders of my beloved Santa Monica. If I continue one more day wishing I was the mother in my head and not the one who is bathing my kids, I will explode into tiny Lego pieces. I have to purge, purge my off the floor, dirty Cherrio eating soul right now. OK, here goes...
I FEED MY KID PIZZA. FROZEN PIZZA, DOMINOS PIZZA, ANY PIZZA, MORE THAN ONCE A WEEK.
There. I've said it. Let the lashings begin.
In all seriousness, I feel better that you know. I have been living in isolation, tucked away in my cottage-like brownstone apartment wanting desperately to be the mother I thought I would be versus the one I became. I wanted to be eco-friendly, recycling, and natural. I wanted to be fashionable, trendy, and up-to-date. I wanted to be calm, reassuring, and serene. I wanted discipline with freedom and freedom with discipline. I wanted the intimacy of the family bed with the privacy of the crib. I wanted to be the best damn mother this town has ever seen. And I wanted to NEVER feed my kid frozen pizza, ever. I have failed. failed. failed.
I am jumping on the confession band wagon of such greats like momastery and reasons my son is crying (thank you, Renee and Carol)  because I need to let this false image of perfection I have in my mind dissolve. These sites have been able to make me laugh in the midst of melt-downs (my own or my 2 year olds) at this strange concept I have grasped onto that I must be pristine and perfect at the grossest job in the world.
But what is that? Where have I come up with this idea of being perfect? Not to get all psychological on you, but is it my childhood? My mom seemed to do her motherhood effortlessly. My lunch was made, the house was immaculate. She was my room mother and brownie troop leader. Yep, she was kind of perfect. Is it fucking facebook? I read a stat about one of my girlfriends making play-do so her kids could play inside from the rain while she baked a cake and I vomited just a little in my mouth. I saw pictures of a fairy tale party someone had for their daughter where all of the magical ideas came from pinterest and I thought my eyeballs were going to melt. How can I live up to this when my 2 year old is screaming for an hour (no exaggeration) because, well, I don't know, I put his juice in the Buzz Light year cup instead of his Elmo cup? and my 9 month old has decided that now would be the best time to suck on the sole of my husband's flip flop that has flipped flopped on the dirty grimy NYC sidewalk and subway stations? How can I be perfect when at the grocery store, my child is screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing like a fish trying to survive out of water? Who is responsible for me thinking that I have to have perfect children and that I need to handle them in perfect ways?
I think one of my past roommates is responsible. It's her fault. She was perfect. She could cook, clean, shop, organize, while being hip, slick and cool better than any style.network make-over show. She was fabulous. And when I look at my high-chair that has a film growing in its cracks or the pile of laundry I haven't done, I think, "*** would NEVER have this going on in her house. She is probably teaching her daughter french as she is cooking flambe for her gorgeous husband who will undoubtedly walk in with flowers and a smile." (note: my husband brings me flowers often. this is one thing I can say is perfect all of the time. He brightens our home with daffodils or roses every week.) She has a great, magical life and I am just happy if everyone has survived the day. Yeah, it's her fault.
Alright, maybe it's not her fault, but why can't I shake this idea that I am completely fucking up my children because I didn't make their baby food or my son has Crayola marker stains on his Curious George t-shirt?
My kids are a mess. There I have said it.
I am a wreck. I don't shower as often as one should. There, it's out.
Why can't I just admit that being a mom is HARD. I am not very good at it. I yell when I know that I shouldn't. I pout when I should play. How do I get over myself and just love the mother I am?
This blog is for me. I need to confess and praise, laugh and cry. I need to kill the Betty Crocker/Mrs. Cleaver/Mary Poppins bitch that is ruling my life and let you all know what I am doing. I am raising two, gorgeous pains in the ass. and that even though, I am not living up to the perfect mother in my brain, I am somehow, perfect.