Admitting the truth can be difficult. For me, this truth revolves around the facade I maintain for my children. It’s not about the usual childhood myths like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy; it’s something deeper and more detrimental. Every time I reassure my kids that failure is acceptable, or that perfection isn’t necessary, I am not being entirely honest. I don’t truly believe those words; I simply hope they won’t inherit my struggles.
The roots of my perfectionism are unclear, but I only became aware of its impact as adulthood and motherhood confronted me head-on. It was a jarring experience that knocked me off my pedestal of achievement, and a decade later, I’m still trying to regain my footing.
During my first pregnancy, everything seemed ideal. I faced no medical issues, enjoyed minimal morning sickness, and embraced an active lifestyle. I was the picture of health and vitality. My delivery went smoothly, and I felt like I was excelling at this new role of motherhood.
But reality hit hard just two days later. My son struggled to latch for breastfeeding, leading to countless tearful moments over the following weeks. I watched helplessly as my once-chubby baby lost weight and cried incessantly, signaling that I was failing as a mother.
As if that wasn’t enough, my son developed severe baby acne that lingered for months. I later discovered it was exacerbated by my attempts to maintain a perfectly curated image of motherhood, instead of accepting the messy reality.
Fast forward four years, and I vividly recall a moment in preschool where my son filled out his “Star of the Week” poster. He wrote his J backward, and though the teachers advised against correcting him, I couldn’t resist the urge to intervene. I thought I was helping him, but in reality, I was only feeding into my need for everything to be flawless.
Reflecting on my parenting journey, I recognize the moments I regret: obsessively washing my son’s face for family photos, feeling embarrassed by my son’s athletic abilities, and insisting on taming my daughter’s wild hair. I’m almost 38 years old, and I am blessed with three wonderfully unique children. Each one is perfect in their own way: my eldest is a brilliant bookworm, my daughter is the kindest soul with a creative heart, and my youngest is full of humor and energy.
In truth, I want my children to experience failure. I want them to learn from missteps and understand that failure does not define their character. I want them to realize that success often follows a series of setbacks. However, I struggle to extend that same grace to myself, despite knowing it’s true.
It’s essential to convey that perfection isn’t a realistic expectation. I recognize that my children’s authentic selves do not reflect my worth as a mother. I understand that a cavity at the dentist or not achieving straight A’s isn’t a failure. Yet, my insecurities and anxiety frequently overshadow this understanding.
To cultivate an environment free from the burden of perfection, I must lead by example. I can do this by allowing my children to embrace their own imperfections and by accepting my own. Today, I refuse to re-fold the towels, I’ll let my daughter style her hair as she wishes, and I will celebrate the mess that comes with creativity. I will stand proud of my perfectly imperfect family.
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In summary, the pursuit of perfectionism in motherhood can create an unhealthy and exhausting environment. Learning to embrace imperfections not only benefits mothers but also teaches children valuable life lessons.