…that I have a secret desire to be a Stepford. I want to be one of those women who laugh at how terribly uncreative Martha Stewart is. I want to be one of those women who whips up some crazy gourmet meal with flour, bacon and garlic being the only ingredients available. I want to put on real clothes and do my hair and wear makeup for no reason, other than that’s simply what one does in the morning. I want to make things that leave other people a little in awe. “You knitted/sewed/crocheted/wove that? That’s amazing!”

But who I am is the crazy lady in the backyard with a camera and full-on bedhead seeking out just the right light to get a picture of the dandelion gone to seed. I’m the chick wearing t-shirts and sweats with funky calico hair that might or might not have seen a comb that day. Makeup? Ha. I’m the chick who figures spaghetti is probably good enough, as long as the kids have a glass of milk with it.

I bake a mean cake, though. And I take pictures that make my mother cry. (In a good way, I’m pretty sure.) I have paintings from little kids to whom I didn’t give birth, and I have voicemails singing my praises — from kids who play games like “What? Look at my butt!” without even a little self-consciousness.

So, I’m pretty sure tomorrow I’m not going to get up and fix my hair or put on makeup or even attempt real clothes. I probably won’t find some long unknown culinary skill that will fill my family with gastronomic delight, either.

But I will dye a purple streak in my hair and let my teenage son get one, too, if he wants. I will let a toddler to whom I didn’t give birth feed my dog Cheerios and teach me how to snuggle properly. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the coolest person ever when I teach a couple of seven year olds how to make a broken ladder friendship bracelet. I will have grins and giggles bestowed on me by a very particular newborn, proving that I am, indeed, the funniest mom she’s ever seen.

A Stepford I am not, and maybe I’m okay with that after all.