Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Imperfect


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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