Let’s be real for a moment. I’ve been living a contradiction, particularly when it comes to my kids. I’m not referring to the classic tales like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, nor am I talking about the adult conversations I have behind closed doors. No, what I’m concealing is something far more significant.
Every time I assure my children that it’s acceptable to fail, I’m not being entirely truthful. When I say perfection isn’t necessary, I’m lying again. Deep down, I struggle to accept this truth myself, but I say it anyway, hoping they won’t inherit my burdens.
I can’t pinpoint where my perfectionism originated. Honestly, I didn’t recognize its grip on me until I became a mother. Motherhood knocked me off my pedestal of achievement, and a decade later, I’m still trying to reclaim that sense of accomplishment.
My first pregnancy was a picture of perfection. I had no health issues, minimal morning sickness, and I hit the gym daily, flaunting my adorable baby bump. Delivery was smooth, and I felt unstoppable. But just 48 hours postpartum, reality hit hard. My son struggled to latch while breastfeeding, and for the first two months, I watched helplessly as he lost weight. I sobbed as I felt like I was failing him.
As if that wasn’t enough, he developed baby acne that lingered for months. In my quest for picture-perfect memories, I inadvertently exacerbated his eczema by scrubbing his face daily for those ideal photo ops.
Fast forward four years, and I vividly recall filling out my son’s “Star of the Week” poster in preschool. He had written his J backward, and despite the teachers’ advice to leave it be, I felt compelled to correct him. What harm could it do, right? My son ended up erasing it, but I didn’t feel proud of my intervention.
I often find myself fixated on trivial things—like the neatness of laundry or my daughter’s hairstyle—rather than celebrating their unique qualities. I cringe when my little ones stumble in sports or create a mess during craft time. I want to be proud of my perfectly imperfect family, yet I struggle to reconcile that with my need for perfection.
At 38, I’m a mother to three wonderful children, each with their own distinct personalities. One is a bookworm with a flair for inventing, another is a kind-hearted creator, and the youngest is a lively athlete. I genuinely want them to experience failure and understand that it doesn’t define their self-worth. The most successful individuals often achieve greatness by learning from their missteps.
Though I know these truths, I grapple with self-doubt and anxiety. I recognize that my children deserve a mother who embodies acceptance, not one who is constantly chasing an unattainable ideal. It’s exhausting and unrealistic.
How do I convey to my kids that perfection doesn’t exist? Perhaps I lead by example. I’ll embrace my flaws, let them explore their own, and celebrate the chaos of creativity. Today, I won’t re-fold the laundry. I’ll allow my daughter to style her hair however she wishes, and I’ll cherish the mess they create as a sign of their imaginative spirits.
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In conclusion, it’s essential to embrace the imperfections of life and motherhood. By allowing ourselves and our children to fail, we create a nurturing environment that fosters growth and authenticity.
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