Confession time: I once considered myself a perfectionist. Not because I believed I was flawless, but due to an overwhelming desire to excel in every aspect of life. I was a people-pleaser, often overly concerned with others’ opinions of me. My aim was always to perform exceptionally at any job I held.
In my earlier years, achieving this was a breeze. I earned top grades, attended a prestigious university, and fell head over heels for a wonderful man who became my husband. I secured a fantastic teaching position and enjoyed a comfortable income. Our first cozy apartment was spotless, and I prepared elaborate, nutritious meals for my charming partner. We even relished our gym memberships and frequent late-night dining outings. It was a picture-perfect existence.
Then came the kids.
Let me clarify: it’s not the children’s fault. Each of my kids has brought unparalleled joy into my life. The challenge lies in the fact that striving for perfection is nearly impossible when surrounded by little ones.
I put forth my best effort. I attempted to maintain friendships, be the ideal spouse, and manage a household where every piece of laundry was clean and folded. I aimed for spotless floors, an empty sink, timely signed school forms, and pristine windows. But as I pushed for this perfection, I found myself increasingly frustrated by the chaos created by the very people I loved most. Those crumbs left behind, the spills, the clean laundry tossed back into the basket instead of being put away, toys scattered everywhere, dirty dishes left near the dishwasher but never actually placed inside, and laundry left precariously on top of the hamper instead of in it.
Then there were the moments when my children chose to whine instead of ask politely, or when they used unkind language with each other. It felt as though they demanded more from me than I had to give. I often felt invisible, my efforts unnoticed. Exhausted, I found myself in a constant state of irritation.
The struggle extended beyond the home. I held high expectations for my children’s academic achievements. Parent-teacher conferences that didn’t meet my standards were devastating. Some of my children took their studies seriously, while others showed little interest.
This was not about competing with other mothers; it was a battle within myself. Was I good enough? Was I being the mother my children deserved? Was my husband proud of my efforts? Did my home meet my own cleanliness standards? Were my kids happy, well-adjusted, engaged in the right activities, and learning essential life skills? Did onlookers view me, a mother of six, as overwhelmed?
Fortunately, I began to recognize my own issues before I negatively impacted my children (well, in this regard at least; I’m sure there are countless other ways my husband and I are inadvertently affecting them, like not buying them the latest gadgets or making them share a room). I had always gauged my self-worth based on my performance. Was I a good daughter, a supportive wife, a caring sister, or a decent friend? As a teacher, validation came easily through evaluations—tangible proof that I was on the right track.
However, motherhood lacks a grading system. There are no report cards to reassure you that you’re doing well, especially on those tough days when everything seems to go wrong. You know those days—the ones where shoes are missing, lunch money is nowhere to be found, or you’re walking through spilled cat food on your kitchen floor. The days when your toddler’s creativity leads to crayon on a freshly scrubbed wall, or when dinner is a lackluster hot dog meal because you just can’t muster the energy for anything more. The days when you lose your temper over something trivial, not because the child deserved it, but simply because you’re utterly exhausted.
It’s a messy life, and it becomes even messier with children. It took me far too long to realize that perfection is an illusion. Striving for it, especially while parenting, is akin to “shoveling snow while it’s still snowing”—utterly futile, as the wise Phyllis Diller once remarked.
I’ve come to terms with this reality, albeit slowly. I now prioritize hugs over sweeping and laughter over scrubbing. Involving my children in household chores has been a tremendous help. I focus more on how my kids feel than on how other mothers perceive me. I guide and support them, allowing each child to blossom into their unique self, instead of forcing them into a mold I envision. My kids may not remember how spotless the floors were, but they will surely cherish the love and warmth I’ve given them.
Lesson learned.
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Summary:
The journey of a reformed perfectionist reflects the challenges of balancing personal expectations with the reality of parenting. The author learns to prioritize love and connection over unattainable standards, embracing the messiness of family life and the unique qualities of each child.