It is probably no surprise to anyone who knows me well that I struggle with perfectionism. By “struggle” I mean swim in an ocean of it and occasionally keep my head above water. I might not come across as a perfectionist because I so rarely attain anything even close to perfection but it is a standard I use to judge myself more harshly than others. I think I’ve been this way since I was a kid but you can ask my parents or brothers for confirmation. I thought I’d really dealt with it through years of counseling but in reading The Enneagram by Richard Rohr, I realize it’s something that I will probably always have in my life no matter how much I try to ignore it.
I was thinking about this the other day when I found toys put away in the wrong bucket and a Fireman Sam figurine attached to my door with a pipe cleaner and muddy footprints everywhere. It was one of those days when the sun hits the floor at just the right angle and all the dust and dog hair and tiny pompoms from some craft are lit up and all I wanted to do was vacuum. I was reminded of the scene in Arrested Development where Buster throws the dust buster at the bus because he thinks it’s Lupe, the housekeeper’s favorite toy and she is leaving. I am confident if you asked my children what my favorite toy is they would say the dust buster. Having tiny humans is teaching me a lot about myself and it’s not always pretty. But it is beautiful.
For someone who has always been angry at herself for not measuring up, having a four year old boy is the best albeit painful medicine. He says things like “Mom, remember I’m perfect, just for me?” and makes me cry while he just sits there and looks at me like I’m crazy. Sometimes I find one of his many inventions (usually involving my stuff) and am able to marvel at the creativity held in his little brain. Nothing is ever what it was created to be for my oldest. He borrowed two combs one day to pretend they were planes despite the fact that he owns toy planes that came in boxes that read “Planes” on the side and were made to be planes. I always say we could just skip buying toys and hand him the recycling bin because it would make him happiest. Nothing is ever safe from his imagination.
I would not have described myself as a concrete thinker until Forest turned three. I would have, in fact, described myself as very creative. I like to do creative things- sew, draw, paint, knit. But I am positively rigid in my outlook compared to this kid. For each time I step back and marvel as his imagination, like a good mom would, there are at least four times when I yell “This is a tool! Not a toy!” because he has taken the hardware I needed to assemble an IKEA table and turned it into cars or taken my whisk to be some sort of sword. I wish every day was like an Ann Voskamp book about seeing the beauty all around but you know what? Some days it is hard for this perfectionist to find pipe cleaners entwined like a nest in her living room lamps.
All that to say, my son is teaching me a lot about myself. I finish vacuuming and find one last tiny animal left over from playing “Pirate Dinosaurs” and am reminded of the little boy in the Kathleen Norris essay “My Messy House.” He wrecks his house and his town and writes “Then I sit in my messy house and say to myself, ‘I shouldn’t have done all that.’” I never feel better after one of these angry cleaning sessions. I mean, superficially I do because come on, no more dog hair! But it is like someone is holding a mirror up to my ugliest side, especially when my son just looks at me like I’ve destroyed the Taj Mahal. I sit in my clean house and think, “I shouldn’t have done all that.”
It is so good for me to be his mom. I knew parenting meant I would influence the lives of my children but I hadn’t really considered that I would be more changed by them. When my daughter was born, I came across this quote that I try to remember when I look at my children and especially when I look at the mess.
“I’m writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you’ve done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God’s grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle. You may not remember me very well at all, and it may seem to you to be no great thing to have been the good child of an old man in a shabby little town you will no doubt leave behind. If only I had the words to tell you.”
― Marilynne Robinson, Gilead