Updated: Dec. 19, 2016
Originally Published: Jan. 9, 2012
Confession: I used to be a perfectionist. Not that I believed I was flawless, but I felt an intense pressure to excel in every aspect of my life. I was a people-pleaser, overly concerned with others’ opinions of me. I aimed to excel at every job I held, no matter how big or small.
In my early days, everything seemed manageable. I achieved top grades, graduated from a prestigious university, and fell head over heels for a wonderful man who loved and married me. I landed a fantastic teaching position that paid well, maintained an immaculate starter apartment, and prepared elaborate meals for my charming husband. We enjoyed our gym memberships and savored countless late-night dinners out. It was, for a while, absolutely perfect.
Then, we welcomed children into our lives.
Now, let me clarify: it’s not their fault. Each of my children has brought unparalleled joy and fulfillment into my world. However, there lies the paradox—striving for perfection is nearly impossible when you’re navigating life with young kids.
I attempted to juggle friendships, be the ideal wife, and maintain a spotless home, with every piece of laundry folded neatly. I aimed to keep the floors pristine, ensure the sink was always empty, and sign school notes promptly. But the more I sought perfection, the more I grew to resent the chaos caused by the little ones who seemed to disrupt my carefully curated plans. You know, those tiny humans who left crumbs everywhere and spilled drinks constantly.
They were the culprits who tossed clean clothes back into the basket rather than putting them away, the ones who abandoned toys exactly where they last played, dashing off in search of something new. They left dirty dishes scattered on tables, countertops, and even next to the dishwasher—never actually in it. And my husband, bless his heart, often left his laundry on top of the hamper instead of in it.
The expectations didn’t stop at home; they extended to my children’s academic performance as well. Parent-teacher conferences that revealed less-than-stellar grades felt like a personal failure. Some of my kids took their studies seriously, while others seemed indifferent.
It wasn’t about measuring up to other mothers; it was a relentless internal competition. Am I doing enough? Am I a good mom? Is my husband proud of me? Is my house clean enough? Are my kids happy, well-adjusted, and involved in the right activities? The pressure was overwhelming, especially as I juggled six kids, often wondering if others thought I was in way over my head.
Fortunately, I began to recognize that the issue lay with my own expectations, before I could potentially damage my kids in the process (well, in this regard anyway). I had always tied my self-worth to my performance—whether as a daughter, wife, sister, or friend.
As a teacher, I received validation through evaluations that provided tangible proof of my success. But as a mother? There’s no report card indicating how well you’re doing. No grading system to assure you that you’re on the right track—especially on those days when everything seems to go wrong. You know the days—when you’re late because you can’t find a shoe or when the cat food spills all over the floor.
The days when you discover marker drawings on freshly painted walls or when dinner consists of hot dogs again because, quite frankly, you’re out of steam. The days when you might overreact not because the child deserved it, but simply because you’re exhausted. The days when you feel like a failure because the house is a disaster, and you’re convinced any other mom would handle it better.
So, perfection? Not even close. But does it really matter? Life is inherently messy, and it becomes even messier with children. It took me longer than it should have to understand that perfection doesn’t exist. Striving for it, especially while raising kids, is akin to “shoveling snow while it’s still snowing,” as Phyllis Diller so wisely put it.
I may be slow to catch on, but I’m getting there. I sweep less and embrace hugs more. I scrub less and share laughter more. Involving my children in household chores has been a game changer. I now prioritize what my kids think over what other moms might judge. I guide and encourage them while allowing them to become who they are meant to be—not who I think they should be. My children won’t remember how spotless the floor was, but they will cherish the love and warmth I offered.
Lesson learned.
For more insights on navigating your journey into motherhood, check out Make a Mom’s article on boosting fertility. And if you’re considering home insemination, here’s an excellent resource to help you on your journey.
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