Perfection

I never considered myself someone who tried to be perfect. Perfect described another type of person. When I was growing up it was for the girls with barrettes that stayed in place, pens that never leaked, and who got good grades. Even if they didn’t get good grades, they got points for being neat.

These days, perfection is for the moms with perfect manicured nails, who are involved in numerous activities with the library or the PTA, and who seem to have large homes with bright, open spaced kitchens. Their children are involved in a number of activities, they always pay attention and perform well, and they never have food on their faces or stains on their T-shirts.

Who the hell are these people, I ask you?

To me, my standards are much lower. I have my own idea of what I want to be. And yet even this is out of reach for me most of the time. I want to work out every day. I want to make my bed each morning, and clean my house once a week. I want to grow tomatoes and green beans in my garden, and have one successful zucchini plant. I want to compost and use less electricity by hanging laundry out to dry whenever I can. As a parent, I want to be kind but consistent with my kids. I want to teach them how to care for themselves responsibly, and to give them the opportunity to learn a wide variety of things. I want to teach them how to enjoy the life they have while caring for others.

I start each week with the best of intentions, lacing up my sneakers, smiling, ready for my workout and the week ahead.

By Wednesday I am usually too tired to fold the laundry. I resent having to water my garden, and I despair at the large piles of pet hair that accumulate in the corners even after I just vacuumed that morning. Instead of patience, I find myself yelling things like “I will take away your stupid DS for the rest of the summer!” and “Seriously? Do I have to tell you to put your underwear in the hamper every morning?”

I feel like I am constantly failing, always falling short of what I want to do and who I want to be, and yet I foolishly keep going, thinking I might get there next week. The question is: are my standards too high? They couldn’t be, right? After all, I’m not asking for an immaculate house and perfect nails. I don’t want to be perfect, just my version of it.

Maybe the trick isn’t being it, but in still aiming for it despite the missing.