As a result of perfect parenting, my husband and I are raising two perfect daughters. You could eat meals off their spotless bedroom floors. They are geniuses and on A-Team Everything, but they’re humble. They hardly fight, and when they do, it’s after they’ve completed their homework and chores; after they’ve mastered a piano sonata each, they’ve served up homemade whole-wheat pizza and they’ve just returned from knitting lessons at Mrs. McCrannahan’s house. Their exchange goes like this–“Dear sister, you’re so nice”/“No, dear sister, you’re so nice–” and then they realize, they’re just tired from being perfect all day, so they take turns using their shared bathroom, where each stands self-assuredly in front of the mirror, moisturizing her face, recognizing her own unique external and internal beauty. Then the sisters skip off to bed (to read for 30 minutes) after sharing a warm embrace.
Ok, I’m back!
All in good fun, but as a person with perfectionist tendencies, I do sometimes worry about my children. Are they putting too much pressure on themselves? I don’t think I’m pressuring them, but am I? I tell them it’s okay to make mistakes; I say it’s about the growth and the practice, but I’m not sure that they’re hearing me.
Last weekend, rather than just giving lip service to the phrase, “Nobody’s Perfect,” I decided I’d go skiing with my girls. I am not a skier. I could have stayed home with the dog.
I could not have scripted my wipe-out getting off the ski-lift any better than it happened. Both daughters were watching from the stopped chair behind me as I, for what felt like just shy of an hour, struggled to get up. It was not pretty: it was perfect. Teaching moment, check. Major bruise on my left thigh, check.
Practicing life, not perfecting it,