Two Takes On Perfectionism

  

Last week-end, I had the opportunity to spend some alone time with both Sage and Taggart, which I love because just being and doing with them leads to some pretty interesting conversations.  Take the weeding Sage and I were doing in the front of the house. It’s a fairly big bed and I hadn’t weeded it in a few weeks.  I think every tree seed in the neighborhood was beckoned to this spot – “Great place to grow up and raise kids! They basically leave you alone around here!!” Well, not today little seedlings. Ready or not, here we come.

There are at least a thousand little seedlings in the bed giving it the ole freshman try to become a tree.  And here we come. I’ve motivated her with a $3.00 prize for helping me eradicate any green in the bed that isn’t shrub or flower (I tried this on her brother too but he lasted about fifteen minutes, threw up his hands and said, “I’m fine with two bucks!” and he left us to our devices.)

So there Sage and I were, I’d sweetened the deal for her so she'd stay: “Four dollars for you for your stick-to-it-iveness, Sweetie!” She stayed. But she was wearing down too. “Mom, we don’t have to get every. single. weed.”  Me: “Well, I’d like to try. If we get them all now we can start with a clean slate.”  Her, emphatically: “Mom, it doesn’t have to be perfect.  Nothing can be perfect.  You always want everything to be perfect. We have people coming over and you want everything picked up and put away.  You want things perfect.  But nothing can be perfect Mom.”  She’s seven. She’s way smarter than me. I don’t tell her this. We keep weeding. We get almost all of them but I’m sure we didn’t get them all. 

She earned her $4.00 and then some (that wise, wise Sage) . . .

Forward 24 hours, and Taggart and I have spent the morning together since Jeff and Sage went to work in his parents’ garden. We are on the way to Taggart’s baseball practice and he asks, “Mom? Why do I always feel like I have to be perfect? Who do I get that from? I hate it.  If things aren’t perfect or I can’t do something exactly right, I get so mad at myself and just want to give up . . . Did I get it from Dad? . . . Uncle Chris? . . . Grammy? . . .”

Uhhhmmm . . . that would be me dear boy (Have you met your dad? Your uncle? Your Grammy??? Never could there be a lesser perfectionist – God bless you mom!).  And I’m so, so sorry that I’ve bequeathed you this. Perhaps it’s genetic? But perhaps not (note Sage above).  My answer to Taggart: “Honey, you get that from me.  I was the exact same way when I was growing up.  I wanted everything to be perfect.  Exactly right.  But let me tell you this. And it’ll be hard to hear it and even harder to understand.  Having to always be right and have things exactly the way you want is a very hard way to be. Because nothing is perfect. Nothing.  And if you are always trying to be perfect, it will set you up for a lot of frustration and unhappiness.  You can be right or you can be happy.  But if you are always focused on being right, you will rarely be happy. Not to mention, you’ll drive other people crazy. We need to shoot for perfectly imperfect. Perfect exactly as God made us – warts and all.”

And as if on cue, the song on the radio had a line that said something to the effect of: “I love all your perfect imperfections.”  We looked at each other, raised our eyebrows, and smiled. “See?” I said. Maybe he heard me. Maybe he gets it.  Nothing is perfect and yet, that moment was.  In that moment, I was both right and happy.  And so glad about that.

Sometimes I still fall off the “recovering perfectionist” wagon but I do my best to be mindful when it rears its ugly, all-or-nothing, take-no-prisoners head. And though it’s crystal clear that dear Sage will probably never have to join me at a PA (Perfectionists Anonymous) meeting, Taggart will most definitely need to come – most likely through an intervention! I’ll be there for Taggart – my sweet boy. I’ll save a spot for him. Because I so love him in all of his perfect imperfections.

Isn’t that what we all really need? To be seen and loved in our many imperfections? A lesson long in the making, learned the hard way, before we knew we had a choice:  Right or happy?  Most days, most of the time, happy’s for me. Unless the wheel falls off the wagon and I tumble out. Then, please help me up. Ask me what I need. Let’s brush the dust off and thank God for the reminder.

Back on the wagon, happily on our way, may we find our “rightness” there: full in the knowledge that we are whole, complete, and perfect, exactly as we are.