If we know on a logical level that no one is perfect, why do
we expect it of ourselves? I look
at someone else’s imperfections as a lovable quirk. In myself, they are foder for daily self-abuse. I have, however, discovered something
this week. There is serious relief
in being honest with yourself about your shortcomings. Here are some of mine.
I’m terrible with anything car related.
I’m known to put dents and dings into my car when driving.
I’m bad with names.
I can never remember what band sang what song.
I have a horrible sense of directions.
I suck at anything computer related…or technology related in
general.
I tend to take short cuts when trying to follow
directions. This rarely works out.
Here’s were it gets harder. Mom shortcomings…
I’m not good about playing with my kids. Do not take this to read I don’t spend
time with my kids or enjoy being around my kids. I most definitely do.
I’m referring to sitting down and playing trains, or cars, etc. I love my weekly Starbuck trips with
Hudson, walks, biking, cooking together.
I just sometimes feel lost when I’m trying to figure out what to do with
the train I’ve been handed to play with.
I’ve never put my child in an extra-curricular activity.
Why would I list all these failures? First of all, I do it to remind myself
that even with these faults, I am no less of a good person. Second, to remind myself that there is
plenty that I am good at and that life will go on for me just fine, faults and
all. I may not be great at play,
but I can spend time with my kids in other ways. Ways that work out for both of us. And despite my failure to put my son in even one extra-curricular
activity, activities that I was convinced would make my child confident and
independent but never managed to actually get around to signing up for, Hudson
was described by his preschool teacher as very independent. So somehow despite my mom failings that
I had convinced myself would scar my kids for life, they are turning out just
fine despite me.
I tell my also perfectionist prone son all the time that
it’s ok not to be perfect. It’s ok
to screw up sometimes. I need to
remember to be that role model for him.
When I expect myself to be perfect I’m not doing him any favors. I’m teaching him that you have to be
great at everything all the time and well, that’s just not how life works. I’m setting him up for worlds of disappointment.
In the end, my children won’t be perfect and they don’t need
me to be perfect. They need me to
love them. And that I can do
perfectly.
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