Learning to let go of perfection...

I am a perfectionist. Upon hearing this, you would automatically assume then, that I have a home that is always neat and tidy, that I finish everything I start, that my children are always wearing clean, pressed clothes, and that my bed is always made. You would be incorrect if you assumed that, exceedingly incorrect. My perfectionism is of a different nature than that of the "classic" perfectionist. It's much more detrimental to our household, at least, it feels that way at times. My perfectionist tendencies lead to complete and utter chaos. It's an ugly, and at times, baffling paradox. I love order, I crave it, I function beautifully when the world around me is aesthetically pleasing and structured. The ugliness happens, however, when the concrete wall of order begins to slowly crumble. The crumbling begins, with a slight deviation in plans, or my inability to accept any help that is "less than perfect". For example, I decide to tackle the laundry pile, I remove from the drier clothes that have tumbled to a desirable level of "fluff", place them in a laundry basket, and carry them away to be immediately folded. You know, folded before the wrinkles set in. Suddenly I hear someone wailing in the bedroom, and run in to find that the dog has chewed up a beloved toy, there are many tears, and much consoling. The chewed up toy incident is then followed by someone needing their tushie wiped, and again by a request for a glass of milk, and again by someone not sharing. 2 hours later I make my way back to the laundry basket, it is wrinkled, horribly, utterly wrinkled. My little perfectionist brain cannot handle the concept of folding wrinkled clothes! They won't fold right, they won't lay right, the Earth may actually stop spinning. So, what happens? Hmmm, I'll just leave it for later, when I have time to fluff it again before folding it. However, it never quite works out that way, does it? Somewhere along the way, someone finds the lonely basket of wrinkled clothing, and uses it in lieu of a napkin, then an innovative child gets the brilliant idea to flip the basket over and hide under it during a game of hide and seek, the dog enters this scenario when he deems the pile of overturned clothes to be the perfect place to rest his weary, shedding hide during nap time. Well, so much for fluffing, back to the laundry pile they go. You see this vicious cycle unfolding? Now lets move on. Hmmm, the brilliant thought crosses my mind to clean up the kids room. I start by picking up, then vacuuming, then I need to spot clean the carpet, then wash the walls, then I need to completely reorganize all of the kids toys. I dump them all into a huge pile, and start the tedious task of trying to separate the Legos from the Playmobil from the Littlest Pet Shop from the Star Wars Toys. Hmmm, well, now that I have spent ever so much time sorting them, I can't possibly just dump them all into a tote. That would be too easy, and such an eyesore. I need little individual plastic compartments to put them in. The trouble is, I don't actually own any such compartments. No worries, I'll just run out in a bit and grab them. Only "in a bit" never happens, because as usual, life happens instead. Or how about the beautiful library I had amassed for the kids when my oldest was a kindergartener, the poor kids never dared read the books, for fear they may not put them away as perfectly as mom had. I mean, surely a smart 5 year old like Caleb, and his precocious 2 year old brother could figure the concept of alphabetizing the authors, or at least sorting by collection and size... right? I alienated my husband, and all of his good intentions, because his help was never quite up to par, he'd help fold towels, and when he looked away, I would sneakily refold it to match mine. So he would just quit helping, and I, never having the proper tools, style, color, equipment, etc, would just bury myself in a house filled with unfinished projects, and things that were never really enjoyed to their fullest potential, because the "perfect" circumstances had never arisen to finish or enjoy them. So there you have it. That state of mind mixes like oil and water with parenting. Being a parent is the epitome of learning to let the little things slide. It's all about enjoying the moment, imperfections, learning, exploring, loving, letting go of our untarnished ideals, and embracing a small, perfectly imperfect tiny person, who loves you unconditionally. It's pretty amazing to me. I mean, my kids love me in spite of the fact that their bedroom is more Orphanage-chic, than Boho-chic. In spite of the fact that I sometimes fold their clothes wrinkled, and, my biggest revelation, is that I am happier for it, much, MUCH happier. I have learned to accept the fact that my youngest hates to wear any form of clothing other than underoos (even though I spent so much time picking out his cute little warbrobe), and I am okay with a messy bookshelf, because guess what? I'm damn lucky I have kids who love to read, and I will even let my kids play with a giant bucket of mud, simply because it's the greatest thrill they can find on a hot summer day. I've realized that if the kitchen floor is sandy, my husband can sweep it, instead of waiting for the perfect opportunity to arise, so that I may sweep it to perfection. And if he misses a few spots? So what, that's what flip flops are for. I think that parenting may indeed have been the single most cathartic thing for my odd form of perfectionism. It has taught me to let go of the little things. In doing so, I have learned to enjoy so much more than I did before I had my kids.

Mr Underoos, after being let wild with a set of markers. By the way, he remained in this markered up state for a good 24 hours before getting a bath...


The untidy bookshelf...


And the bucket-o-mud...