Originally published in the
Life At Home section of The
Boston Globe
July 18, 2002 –modified from
its original form
CONFESSIONS OF AN IMPERFECT MOM
By, Rebecca Holdsworth
I have been dealt a mortal blow. I have been insulted so
completely that it has shaken my entire idea of who I am and who I strive to
be. What, may you ask, could be so earth shattering? It was, in a word, perfection.
A friend of 10 years, one who I thought I knew so well and,
more importantly, knew me, one who went through my darkest hours of college
angst with me and yet our friendship still resurfaced on the other side, called
me the worst name any mother can call another: perfect.
Perfect:
an adjective. "Without defect or omission," according to Webster's.
"In a condition of complete excellence."
As in: "You are the perfect mother. I can never hope to
attain your level of perfection in the parenting of my child."
Pardon? Me? Are we talking about me? I let out an indignant
"I am not!" and proceeded on a 20-minute tirade on just how horrible
a mother I really am.
After hanging up with her, I called a good friend. She was a
true friend, a dear friend, a realistic, down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is
friend. I told her my greatest insult: I
was thought to be the perfect mother, cringing as the word came out of my
mouth.
There was a bit of silence but that didn't worry me. It
takes time for a good, true, honest friend to find a tactful way of saying,
"You stink as a mom." I waited eagerly for those words.
"Well," she began, "you are kind of the
Martha Stewart of parenting."
I was dumbstruck. I was aghast. I was horrified. So what if
my curtains match my couch? So what if I have knickknacks artfully arranged
over my kitchen cabinets? Who cares if my children's rooms are themed and there
just so happen to be a few fresh herbs tucked in between the plants in my
window boxes? That isn't what makes me a good parent!
"Hey! Don't get me wrong," she continued.
"I've seen you lose your cool. I know what you look like after a full day
of the Ringling Brothers and Three under Three Circus. But you seem to pull it
off so effortlessly." She apologized for making me feel worse and said she
had to go. "I have to wash off my kids and hose down the office wall now.
Too much alone time and a little blue paint has gotten way out of
control."
Perfect. Why does the idea of being seen as a perfect parent
seem like such an abhorrent thing? Is it because the simple nature of
perfection raises the bar and makes it that much harder on the next one in
line? I don't want the responsibility of being a parental yardstick. I don't
want to be the reason someone else feels lousy. I don't want to be different. I
want to be down in the trenches with the rest of the parents, complaining about
diapers and hunger strikes and potty training gone wrong. I want to be one of
the gang.
Here is the thing: I am one of the gang. I am not perfect, a
long way from it. I lose my temper and a stray four-letter word is repeated
gleefully at the next family dinner. I have realized my kids have gone a week without
a bath; and their brown color isn't from a lack of sunscreen at the beach
yesterday. I have left a diaper on so long as to necessitate a life preserver
for the wearer and a shampoo for the carpet. I'm not perfect and I don't want
to be.
Ask any parent about perfection and you'll hear something
like, "Honey, I gave that up years ago. I'll settle for convincing my kid
to eat something other than corn flakes."
I tell people I am not saving for college but for the therapy
they will surely need after 18 years with me as their perfect mom.
THE ESSAY
Rebecca Holdsworth writes in Shirley.
Copyright (c) 2002 Globe Newspaper Company
Record Number: 0207180034
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