I love the flaws and imperfections that tell the story of my life. I wear them everyday and I cannot get rid of them. I do not want to be rid of them; I embrace them and smile because of the stories they tell…

The scar through my eyebrow is from losing my focus and depth perception when I was only in kindergarten causing me to walk into a piece of equipment on the school playground. I remember vividly feeling my mother holding my hand ― my 8 1/2 month pregnant mother held my hand and cried deeply for me. Although the emergency room doctors thought she might, she did not give birth that day, but I got my first pair of glasses.

The scar on my chin is from splitting it open three separate times in one summer on the same rock, over the same handlebars, of the same bike ― what is the definition of insanity again? Oh, yes, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results… interesting. My youngest son has his own story to tell about the scar on his chin ― ask around, there is a whole club of us. When my son was getting his chin “glued” closed, five of the seven adults in the room had a scar on their chin.

The tiny patch of stretch marks on the lower right side of my abdomen is where all three of my sons rested their heads while they grew inside me; it will be a reminder long after my sons are grown and gone and have families of their own, that there were once three babies whose lives I was blessed to have begin inside me.

The scar on my toe, well that one I do not remember, but I am sure it remembers its story and it is a part of me just as much as the others.

The lines that grow and deepen around my eyes each carry the stories of the deep joys and deep sorrows of my life. These lines even carry stories that I have forgotten. There are the times when I have laughed so hard that I could not breath and my stomach muscles hurt so much that even the next day I could feel a gentle soreness that would bring a smile. They also carry the stories of the times I have cried from such deep sadness that I thought I would never recover from the loss I was grieving at the time. These lines are the evidence of the times, the places, the people and the events, especially the ones I have forgotten, that have touched my soul. I have earned them, I treasure them and I would never dream of erasing them.

I have three large scars on three different parts of my body that together tell the same story of how I am alive today. I have worn them pretty much my entire life; to me, they are beautiful.

My knee hurts and cramps up sometimes, especially when it rains, from the damage of years of playing sports. With this body, scars, flaws and all; I played, enjoyed, and still do ― not just sports ― but life.

I have other scars and flaws, both inside and out, and all together, they are me... We tell our story with the way we live our life. Live well and tell a great story.Do not seek perfection, it is in the flaws where true beauty is found.

Three boys live here. I am looking around my house and it is in desperate need of some major cleaning. The lives of three young boys and mine come crashing into each other here. Soccer shoes, golf clubs, backpacks, notes from school, band aids and reminders of events coming up. Our walls are covered with pictures reminding us of the time that has passed by so quickly. I look at the mess and I think I should be getting the cold weather clothes packed away and the warm weather clothes out. Another job to do, and inevitably creating yet another mess to clean. It is hard keeping up when I consider the trade off ― the other things, the fun things, the fulfilling things going on in my life.

Three boys live here ― three boys who seem to live in the kitchen. The pantry door is always left open and the kitchen is a few degrees colder then the rest of the house because of the added cooling system of the refrigerator door always being open.

I think about doing some major, deep cleaning sometimes, but then I think, what is more important in life: completing endless housekeeping tasks or making memories? Do I want my boys to grow up and remember living in a spotless house and eating gourmet dinners, or do I want them remembering how we played together, watched movies together and how I knew as much about “Crash Bandicoot” and “Jak and Daxter” as they did? We go to the driving range and bowling alley, we play baseball, soccer, basketball and golf in the yard. We play board games and computer games together and read stories at night.

As a mother, that is the legacy I want to leave; the constant cleaning and endless scrubbing will wait, our life will not.

Three boys live here, but they won't live here forever. So for now, straightened up is good enough; I choose to create memories.