If being a SuperIma means that I am speechless when my son tells me he wants me to go to work, and don't have the first clue about how to teach him not to say that again. Ever.
If SuperIma schleps her boy to an age-inappropriate movie so that she gets a chance to see it before it hits DVD.
If SuperIma leaves crusted snot on the baby's face when she is laid down for naptime, because wiping it off would wake the baby, and that is just not okay right now.
If SuperIma yells (yes, YELLS!) at her child when she is frustrated that he just. won't. toilet train.
If SuperIma squeezes the baby into pajamas that are undeniably too small, because the prospect of digging through boxes to find the next size up is just too overwhelming.
If SuperIma notices a streak of dried snot or smeared banana on her couch cushions, and shrugs and sits down on it instead of wiping it up.
If SuperIma regularly makes a second pot of coffee after lunch just to find the energy to cheerfully get through the afternoon.
If SuperIma sometimes pours herself a different kind of drink the second she hears Abba walking in the door at the end of a long day.
If SuperIma sometimes thinks, like seriously thinks, about checking into a hotel for the night so she can just get away from it all.
If SuperIma only includes one photo at the end of her very long blog post, and that photo is of the disgusting state of her house where she ignores it all while blogging, because that is all the photographic energy she can muster.
Yep. I'm SuperIma. And so are you (or, you know, SuperAbba, as the case may be.) And here is your high-five. And hug. Way to go, lady.