The circles moms inhabit on the Internet are a double-edged sword.

I’ll start with the good: Lots of women to commiserate when you’re having a rough time. Oodles of people who have “been there, done that” and can give you great advice. People to laugh with you when your kid does something cute that might make others roll their eyes.

The bad? Well, aside from the omnipresent, misguided Mommy Wars over everything from eating to sleeping (thankfully not on Hellobee), sometimes the Internet can feel like a one-way ticket to Planet Inadequacy – population: me.

A lot of my frustration has to do with the rise of Pinterest – after all, it has never been easier to see just how much you suck with one glance. For instance, take this Rainbow Cake, which has been taunting me ever since I pinned it. Isn’t it gorgeous? Yes! Wouldn’t it be perfect for Baby Y’s first birthday? Yes! Is there a snowball’s chance in you-know-where that mine would ever look that beautiful, even if I did have the entire day to devote to it? Not on your life.

And then there is good ol’ Facebook, where my friends post beautiful, professional photos of their children frolicking in fields of daisies, while my child is approaching his first birthday without so much as a Sears portrait session under his belt. Oh, and an ex-boyfriend from many moons ago is boasting about how skinny his wife is after his daughter’s birth, causing me to throw up a little in my mouth and pretend I did not wear my maternity jeans the other day. (Hey, they’re comfy.)

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And yes, sometimes this feeling of woe crops up even on my beloved Hellobee with its cute DIY projects on parade. Even something so simple as Mrs. Bicycle’s genius Sophie leash can elicit a head-meets-desk, why-didn’t-I-think-of-that moment when I remember all the times I have let Baby Y chomp on his decidedly unclean, dropped-several-times plastic giraffe. (Builds the immune system … right?)

Sometimes it’s hard to remember, but just because I’m not producing tangible evidence of domestic divahood at every turn does not mean I’m a bad mother. Baby Y does not care that I’ve not yet made him light sabers out of pool noodles, and he’s blissfully unaware that he has a room full of IKEA instead of lovingly restored vintage pieces.

I’m not picking on the moms who are able to complete fabulous crafts or cook up scrumptious kiddie feasts or be two sizes smaller than they were before they were pregnant at three months postpartum. (OK, maybe I’m still giving the stink eye to that last mom.) Perhaps I simply haven’t figured how to juggle like they have. And I will one day make a respectable Cookie Monster cupcake if it kills me!

But it’s the stuff that isn’t inherently bloggable, the stuff that doesn’t lend itself to a pretty portrait, that reminds me I’m still a good mom: Snuggling with a feverish Baby Y at 4 a.m. Teaching him how to kiss Elmo in one of his cloth books. Playing “tent” under a blanket on the couch. Working during his naps in hopes that he can pick a college without worrying about how to pay for it.

Of course, there’s also this: Blogging in the hopes that something in this post will strike a chord with someone else, too. I could use this time to glue moustaches onto all of Baby Y’s pacifiers, but keeping it real is my priority. Accordingly, there’s nothing pretty to pin in this post.

And I’m okay with that.

I couldn’t even keep up with the ever-popular monthly photos. My plan was to snap a picture of Baby Y with Yoda every week. I think I made it until about 3.5 months before I threw in the towel!