- Maya Angelou
This week, I had a major & public parenting failure. There was screaming. A well-meaning stranger tried to help. Instead of letting her, I slunk away with my confused children in tow. The woman's words have led to huge amounts of shame, resentment, and anger but most importantly to soul-searching.
I've been trying too long to be perfect. Being a good mom to intelligent, beautiful daughters is a hard job. There are a thousand ways to second-guess myself every day. Being stepmom is even harder. I feel like "good" isn't enough. There's always someone watching. If someone is feeling punitive on a day I make a mistake then we could all end up in court, redrafting the custody agreement. Therefore, I can't make mistakes. To be good enough as a stepmom means perfection. And perfection for stepmom means perfection for kids. Monkey wouldn't have made that mistake if I had coached her a little more with her homework. Peanut would have done better on the test if I had made sure she was in bed on time. The harder I try to reach the bar, the further we move away from it.
Peanut is a people-pleaser so she's done her darnedest to reach the standard. She'll wear what she's told, read what she's told, think what she's told. Of course, switching from house to house those things she's being told change a few times each week. She's still trying, though. She wants to be perfect so that we'll love her more. Even typing that sentence breaks my heart. She has no concept of how wonderful she really is, much less what things make her uniquely so.
Monkey, on the other hand, is completely her own person. She will not be anything other than who she is. She is not normal and has zero interest in going there. Her reaction to the perfection stress has been to flout every standard but turn around and throw the bossy perfectionist stress back at the rest of the family. She's learned that imperfect people still get to demand perfection from others.
The ugly flip side of this is that there is another woman who loves these children madly and who is doing the best she knows how for them. On my good days I wish her well and assume the best of her. On other days I criticize and judge. I rehash her actions, count her mistakes, and scrutinize her motivations. I wish I had more good days but I'm too busy trying to hide my imperfection.
The day after my ugly, screaming tantrum was rainy. Puddin' and I were off to pick up Monkey from school and Puddin' asked to wear her boots. Puddin' is a puddle jumper. A block before the school there's a deep muddy puddle that delights her little soul. I let her jump and run and twirl her umbrella. Monkey came along and together we stood, watching Puddin's joy. Perfect-mom cried out that Monkey should go straight to work on her homework but I let Puddin's laughter drown the nagging voice. I let out a deep laugh at a particularly exuberant leap and Monkey commented that she never sees me laugh like that. On my good days I laugh a lot. I wish I had more good days.
Stan and I have recently started talking with the kids about the difference between living in a perfect world where mistakes are punished and a grace-filled world where mistakes are forgiven. We are all - parents and children both - trying to choose grace. Grace, like muddy puddles, brings delight to our souls.
