I’m laying in bed wishing my life were a movie, and unfortunately Groundhog Day is the one that keeps coming to mind. Today was a day when I could not get it right. I could not be kind or patient or even grateful for all the blessings I have. I walked out of the house this morning without even kissing my family goodbye, distracted by all the things I needed to accomplish before the day began, and tired, instead of rejuvenated by the weekend. This Monday felt like the end of a long week, instead of the beginning, after six days with the husband gone elk hunting, and then headed back today on shift at the firehouse, and I could not see my way to Tuesday. If only we could hit the rewind button, or live the day again, but do it better. This is what comes of being a perfectionist, wishing to do things over and over again until I get it right, instead of letting today go, so tomorrow can begin.
Perfectionists don’t look like you think they might. They are not all perfectly-pressed pristine paragons of pulchritude (wordies of the world unite!). The first time I read that most perfectionists are procrastinators, I felt someone had opened up my half-empty diary and read the scribblings within. This fear of imperfection stops up creativity and progress. This folly is what has my blog littered with drafts “that just need a little more tweaking,” languishing in the junk drawer of my mind. I don’t blame Pinterest or all the other parenting blogs with their professional-looking pictures of crafts I could never master or perfectly clean homes that don’t have piles of clean laundry that still need folding. I was born this way, and have unfortunately passed this trait on to my kids, with Daughter #1 wailing at age 3: “But I can’t make it perfect”, while trying to tie her shoes. I can’t be Bill Murray today, so in an effort to let go of this ideal of perfectionism, I am sharing this sad, largely unedited tale of how I picked my self-pitying self up and kicked myself (metaphorically, of course) in the dupa as the Polish say. (You can’t grow up where I did in Michigan and not pick up a few useful Polish words, another useful one being paczki).
Sometimes, we live the Pinterest life, or at least give the appearance of doing so. Last night we dined on bone china eating grass-fed husband-hunted grilled elk steaks with a side of organic brown quinoa, and garden fresh-picked kale stir-fried with onions and nitrite-free bacon. Here is a picture of that lovely meal.
Most times we don’t though. Today, I picked up dinner from Wendy’s (by request from my little guy–not sure if that makes it better or worse) on the way home so we could get started on the hours of homework I knew lay ahead of us. My kids ate their Kid Value Meals (“with toy from Dreamworks!”) while I prayed that the fumes in my tank would get us through the line at the gas station, hoping the gas light would not start blinking like the robot in Swiss Family Robinson. I’m sure the bacon on the Junior bacon cheeseburger was not nitrite-free. There is no picture of that meal.
When we got home, Dragon Mama reared her ugly head, and the battle of the homework began. My middle daughter has no great love of math, and a summer in which we did not review multiplication tables is bearing all of its tearful fruits now. As I sat there, wishing the husband was home so I could tag out for a few minutes like those old WWF wrestling matches, I wondered if perhaps I am the cause of her dislike of math. Not a great motherhood moment. I walked away to sit on our patio swing, in the hopes that it would give me some perspective. This would be the moment I discovered the dog had found something delightful in the compost to string all over the yard. I have to admit, there was nothing Zen-like about this outdoors experience, and the swing would likely be more calming if it weren’t powered by angry feet, rocking wildly off its foundation.
My spirits thusly fortified by the brisk swing, I felt up to the homework battle, in which the phrases “No, it would not be easier to add it 36 times, just MULTIPLY!” and “Yes, it is still wrong! Add it again.” were uttered. This is why I would be horrible at home-schooling my children, and why I believe teachers should be paid exponentially more than they are. At the end, we negotiated how to dole out the last 6 problems of Sunshine Math for the rest of the week given a full schedule of baseball, soccer, dance, scouting, and, of course, work. That was when my middle daughter said, “I really hope Daddy will be home for at least some of those days.” “Me, too,” I thought to myself.
In the middle of this, my husband called back to apologize for our earlier conversation in which I had retorted, “I don’t understand why we’re yelling when we agree with each other.” I had the good sense to also apologize, though not very graciously, and then he shared the news which made every single grumpy moment seem ridiculously banal. Our friend has cancer, and the outcome is uncertain.
On a day when I managed to yell at my kids just trying to add and multiply, my husband while trying to agree with him, and the dog for doing what dogs do, this news made me drop my head in shame. I looked at my self-pitying soul, and resolved to live better. We get no second chances, this not being a movie set and all, and so, we said our bedtime prayers, I apologized for being a dragon Mama, and we had a cuddle session which put them past their bedtimes, in the hopes it will all balance out in the end.
Tonight I’m thankful for second chances and forgiveness. I’m grateful for Wendy’s Junior bacon cheeseburgers and elk steaks. And I’m thankful for all the teachers who spend hours a day teaching our children with patience and skill. I’m praying for all the other dragon mamas (and papas) out there who have to parent alone all the time. I’m praying tonight for our friend, and for all of us out there who are struggling to live each day with grace, whether it is our last day or our first, again.