I don’t think we’ll ever find the land of perfect, but honestly, I don’t think I’d want us to.
I first coined the term “freaky perfect” in a post from November 2010, back when my blog was still called “The Bee Dot.” It was a term I used to describe my older son and our circumstances. In sharing the story of what we were going through, I kept thinking of the phrase “new normal,” but that felt a bit overused and cliché-ish to me. “Freaky perfect” was a better fit.
The more I thought about it, the more came to love what those words mean. They don’t just describe my son. They also describe me. They describe my family. They describe the life we lead and the world in which we live it.
To me, “freaky perfect” means trying to be perfect, trying to get it right, but never quite making it. It’s sending the kids off to school wearing dirty uniform pants every once in while because you’re behind on the laundry, but at least spritzing them with a fabric freshener first. It’s about attending a fabulous party and feeling like a star in a new dress that you successfully lost five pounds for, only to realize the next day that the zipper was broken.
But it’s not about just accepting life’s little foibles. It’s about embracing them. Sometimes it’s even about seeking them out. It’s about all the fun there is to be had when you’re willing to be a little bit crazy, a little bit loud, a little bit weird.
A little bit freaky.
Freaky perfect is like the circus. It’s about performers and animals who’ve spent years perfecting their skills and rehearsing their acts. They put on an amazing show, filled with glitter and excitement and thrills. But there’s always the fear that something might go tragically wrong. There’s an undercurrent of crazy. For every glamorous trapeze artist, there’s a sideshow freak.
I’ve decided I quite like this way of life. It’s like having Martha Stewart for a mother and Kat Von D for a best friend.
Things are a little bit freaky around here. And that’s perfectly fine.