My name's Kelsey and I'm a recovering perfectionist

I couldn't tell you when it started.

I was never a neatnik as a child. In fact, I distinctly remember more than one occasion where my dad, a fire safety expert, got upset with me for the amount of clothing piled behind my bedroom door. When my parents our house in my mid-teens, I threw all my clothes onto the floor of my closet and called it good, never having a second thought about potential buyers wanting to see the actual storage space.

Maybe it began when I moved from a one bedroom apartment into 400 square foot studio. Even on my own, I had to get efficient at organizing and became obsessed with reading books and blogs about small spaces.

Then Dan and I got married and bought an 850 square foot condo, out of which I ran a business.

Then we added our first child.

Then our second.

Then our third.

But with those babies, also came big needs. Not just typical needs, but extra needs too.

I'm mama to two little ones, 2 and 5 years old respectively who require my help with everything from eating to drinking to diaper changes to playing with toys, even communication.

And with these babies, my time dwindled.

Laundry piles up. The kitchen sometimes goes uncleaned. Sometimes (read: many times) we don't get through every one's physical therapy recommendations in a day. It can take me days, or weeks, to respond to telephone calls or messages, if I even remember to return them at all.

It used to weigh heavily on me.

I used to be so together. So efficient. I'd never have had a mountain of clean laundry on my laundry room floor before (hey, at least it's clean!).

But in those moments, driving to school where my son asks me about the special gifts that God's given each of my children.

Or in those moments when I'm holding a drowsy Max while Daddy reads Chronicles of Narnia before bed.

Or in the middle of the night, when my daughter wakes up for a bottle, and she can't stop giggling and smiling because she's so happy to see me.

Or when I whisper in Michael's ear that I love him and I think he's an amazing little boy, just because I know he can't control his laughter when I do it. It's then that I remember...

They don't care that the laundry's not folded.

They don't care that they didn't get their full 30 minutes in their standers that day.

They don't care that the kitchen counter has rice cereal scattered about.

They care that Mama took the time to hold them, to read to them, to tell them about their Heavenly Father who gave them each amazing, wonderful gifts of smiles, smarts and joy.

And I remember that it's okay that I'm not Super Mom.

It's okay that I'm not perfect.

I'm their Mama.