Life is really about loving flawed things.
My daughter was throwing her food all over the floor, yet again. She gave this mischievous grin and looked out of the corner of her eye at me.
I was staring at her in a somewhat stern way, but she knew I didn't have a chance. She saw through my bluff. I was practically holding back a smirk myself if I'm honest.
“What you do, daddy?”
“You know you're not supposed to throw your food on the floor”. I tried to play parent, but all I could really think about was how much I love her.
Whenever I've met the family of one of my friends, the consensus is usually the same on their end— “My family is craaazy”.
I've come to find that most people actually believe their family is in fact the craziest.
It's the uniqueness in conversation, the lack of dull interaction, the goofy way families spend time together. The vulnerability.
It's all very personal to them. And even if most people look at their family unit and see the crazy, they still love the hell out of it.
There's something youthful and innocent about loving imperfection. As a kid you find an oddly shaped stick and might carry it around for 3 days.
The stick is different, unique, it's yours. There's something special about that identity with something.
It feels like our alliance to the weird things—our love for the crazy—keep us going in the right direction, no matter the distractions that try to pull our attention elsewhere.
I think we find that the crazy ends up being our safety net. It grounds us and keeps us whole.